


An Elusive Peace

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1782, 1797, Adultery, Congress, Constitutional Convention, F/M, Peacetime, Romance, to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-20 10:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13716210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: For Hamilton and Eliza, peace was supposed to mark the end to their separation and the beginning of domestic bliss. But Hamilton's ambition and the challenges facing the new nation quickly interfere. Happily ever after may not be as easy to attain as they once hoped.





	1. Eliza, July 1782

_“Though I am not sanguine in expecting it, I am not without hopes this Winter will produce a peace and then you must submit to the mortification of enjoying more domestic happiness and less fame. This I know you will not like, but we cannot always have things as we wish._ ” –Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, August 1780.

____

**July 1782**

Eliza opened the door to the linen closet and paused, face hidden as she took a deep breath. Peace, once her most ardent prayer, was beginning to feel like little more than a beautiful dream that slipped further away the harder she clung to it. She brushed her fingertips over the corners of her eyes to wipe away the gathering moisture.

When Hamilton first came home from Yorktown, he’d been so worn and ill that he’d taken to bed on and off for nearly a month. As much as she hated to see him unwell, all those long hours she’d spent simply holding him in her arms while he’d rested beside her had felt like a gift from heaven. Of course, she’d known that she couldn’t keep him all to herself forever. His health improved and he began to set his sights on the future, studying for the bar and taking up the post of Receiver of Continental Taxes for New York. The first task had been expected; the second had been more concerning.

“It hardly even qualifies as a government appointment,” Hamilton had assured her. “It’s just a way to earn a little money while I finish my studies, so we won’t be so dependent on your family.”

She’d tried to believe him, but she knew he could do nothing by halves. Sure enough, within weeks of accepting the post, he was off to Poughkeepsie to argue for tax reforms to a committee of assemblymen. The committee had been so impressed by his passionate and persuasive appeal that they’d voted to appoint him as a delegate to the Continental Congress that very day.

He’d hesitated in accepting, telling her, “I want nothing but you and our baby, Betsey. I couldn’t bear to be away from you, all the way in Philadelphia, for months at a time.” She’d thought that was the end of it, that he would refuse the appointment and stay with her here in New York, until today, when a letter from John Laurens had arrived.

“ _I was flattered with an account of you being elected a delegate from N. York_ ,” Laurens wrote from South Carolina. “ _I must confess to you, that, at the present state of the War, I sh[oul]d prefer your going into Congress…Your private affairs cannot require such immediate and close attention; you speak like a pater familias surrounded with numerous progeny_.”*

Hamilton showed her the letter after dinner, expression conflicted. “Maybe Jack is right. I could do a lot of good as a delegate, and it’s not going to get easier to take an appointment in the future, when I’ve a practice to manage and our family has grown. What do you think?”

She thought she’d very much like to strangle Jack.

“Pip and I can manage, if this is something you feel you need to do,” she’d answered instead.

He’d given her a wide, sunny smile. “Thank you.”

She sighed, straightened her spine, and reached for the extra towels she’d come to collect from the linen closet. Their new country needed her brilliant husband; she supposed she should be proud. But was it so much to ask to keep even a fraction of him for herself?

The sound of breathy, squeaky baby giggles grew more audible as she approached her bedroom. She paused in the open doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with her arms full of towels as a smile blossomed across her face. Pip splashed happily at the soapy, bubbly water in his shallow bath basin while her husband ducked down behind the edge.

“Where’s Pip? Where’d he go?” Hamilton asked, tone light and happy. He jumped back up into Pip’s line of sight and clapped his hands. “There he is!”

Pip laughed even harder and splashed at the water again so that more of it sloshed over the side of the basin onto the floor. Shaking her head at the growing puddle on the wooden floorboards, she stepped into the room and laid one of the towels down over it. Her husband’s shirt and breeches were also soaked, she noticed. “Are you trying to give Papa a bath, Pip?” she asked.

Hamilton looked down at his dripping shirt and grinned at her. “I don’t mind. It’s so hot out, I probably could use another one.”

She gave him an exaggerated sniff, then made a face. His laughter prompted another fit of giggles from their son. “You might be right. But at this rate, there won’t be enough water left to clean our son,” she added lightly.

“We’re having fun,” he replied, voice still pitched up to keep Pip’s attention. His fingers reached to tickle Pip on his pudgy little tummy. Pip twisted in on himself, face red as he gasped more breathy giggles. She couldn’t help smiling at her son’s pure delight.

“So I see,” she agreed. She ran her hand over the mop of dark hair on Pip’s head to settle him a little. His big dark eyes turned to gaze up at her and he gave her a broad, gummy grin. She cooed softly, “My sweet boy.”

“All right, my darling boy, let’s get you cleaned up,” Hamilton said, voice softer and lower. He reached for the bar of soap and a hand towel, and dipped both into what remained of the bathwater before rubbing the soap vigorously against the towel. More bubbles appeared on the surface of the water. Pip grabbed at them curiously, frowning when they disappeared in his little fist.

“We can’t have a stinky baby in the house.” Hamilton made a silly face as he said the last sentence, which caused Pip to break out in fresh giggles.

She stood back as he finished up with Pip’s bath. The happy scene brought a renewed wave of sadness as she watched. This was how she loved him best, she thought, home and focused on her and their baby. Hadn’t she shared him enough?

**

That night found Eliza lying awake in bed, blinking slowly at the canopy above her as thoughts of Hamilton leaving that fall raced through her head. A muted hoot from an owl joined the rhythmic music of the cicadas, crickets, and her husband’s snores as she shifted uncomfortably and finally shoved the thin blanket off of her entirely. The sweltering summer heat had hardly eased at all with the setting sun. She felt sticky with sweat, her pillow damp beneath her.

The more she thought about losing him to public service for another year, the more upset she grew. She’d waited nearly a year to marry him while he fought for America. She’d lived with a nearly overwhelming fear for months while he marched off to Virginia to face the British at Yorktown. When he came home, it was supposed to be for good.  

Yet, when they’d discussed it again before going to bed, she could see how much the idea of representing New York in Congress appealed to him. He used to rant and rail about Congress’s ineptitude; the chance to change it from the inside seemed to grow on him the more he considered it. As much as she wanted him home with her, she didn’t want to hold him back from doing something he truly wanted to do. Part of her recognized that her feelings on the matter were being exaggerated by the muggy, sleepless night. All she really wanted was some meaningful, quality time with her husband, away from thoughts of the war, and the law, and Congress.

She sighed and sat up. If she was to endure yet another year of separation from her beloved, she’d just have to seize what little time they did have together, she decided. And if sleep was going to continue to elude her, she may as well start now.

“Hamilton?”

He snored softly.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his gently. His lips puckered slightly against hers in response, but he still didn’t seem awake. Caressing the soft material of his nightshirt, she asked again, “Hamilton?”

“Hm?” he hummed. 

“Are you awake?”

“Mm.”

“Wake up,” she urged.

She was rewarded with one bleary eye, just visible in the moonlight.

“What?” he groaned.

“I can’t sleep,” she told him.

His hand went to her hip and soothed down towards her thigh. His open eye fell closed. When she kissed him again, he responded lazily and then whispered, “I’m sleeping.”

She shook him gently by the shoulder and pressed, “Hamilton.”   

“What?” he whined, though both his eyes finally opened.

“I can’t sleep,” she repeated.

He sighed heavily and sat up, rubbing his hand over his face in the dark. Slightly more awake now, he edged closer to her and asked, “What’s the matter?”

She didn’t want to rehash her all her racing thoughts. Talking more would only make him feel bad about wanting to accept the position, which wasn’t what she wanted. She considered a moment, relishing the feeling of his hand atop hers.

An idea occurred to her, bringing a smile to her face. “I want to go on an adventure.”

“What?” He squinted at her, sleep-mussed and adorably confused.

“An adventure,” she repeated. 

“Now?”

“Now,” she confirmed, sliding out of bed and tugging on his arm to encourage him to follow. “Come on.”

“You’re insane,” he groaned as he slid across the bed towards her and slowly lowered his feet to the floor.

Mood substantially improved already, she laughed and simply encouraged, “Come.”

He padded along obediently behind her as she led him out of the room towards the main staircase.

“Watch the second step,” she whispered. “It creaks.”

He chuckled, and replied sotto voce, “I have concerns about how adept you are at sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night.”

“A girl can’t reveal all her secrets.” She smiled at him mysteriously. In reality, she’d never actually snuck _out_ of the house before; she’d learned about the creaky step from sneaking downstairs early on many a Christmas morning, when the smell of spices and sweetmeats emanating from the kitchen grew too tempting to resist.

When they made it to the foyer, she struck a match to light one of the lanterns, then reclaimed Hamilton’s hand to tug him out the door.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he eased the door shut behind them.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “That’s what makes it an adventure.”

She glanced back to see him grinning at her in the lantern light. “Lead the way.”

Holding the light out in front of her, she fit her fingers into the spaces between his and took off at a run towards the grassy hill that led to the riverbank. Her bare feet grew damp in the long, dewy grass as she ran, laughing, blessedly cool and happy in the fresh night air. Hamilton was only a mere step behind her as they raced, faster and faster, down the steep hill, until it felt like they were flying.

He let go of her hand close to the bottom. She wasn’t sure if he slipped or if he purposely went down, but he ended up rolling in the grass the rest of the way. She’d skidded to a halt when he first fell, and he’d surged ahead past her, his laughter beckoning her on towards the river. She stumbled to a stop at the bottom, dropped the lantern to the ground, and flopped down beside him.

“Would you look at that?” he asked softly.

She followed his gaze up towards the heavens, where thousands of little stars gleamed in the inky black alongside the nearly full moon, and not a single cloud obscured their view. The throaty croak of a bullfrog sounded nearby, a newcomer to the cicadas and crickets she’d been listening to all evening, with the gentle rush of the steadily rolling Hudson the perfect baseline to the song of the wildlife around them. Hamilton’s hand found hers again, their fingers entwining on the damp grass beneath them.

“It’s so beautiful,” she sighed. For a moment, the sensation of flying down the hill swept over her again, only now she was floating up into the glittering sky, just her, and her Hamilton, and the stars. The fanciful thought made her smile. She rolled over in the grass to be nearer to him. With a contented smile, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he replied in a soft, tender voice. His free hand came up to brush through the curls that had come free of her braid while she ran. She closed her eyes to fully enjoy the sensation.

She could lay like this with him forever, she thought, as she rested her head on his chest, just over his heart.

Eventually, Hamilton sat up and wandered over to the riverbank. He stooped down to collect some small pebbles and then began to attempt to skip them on water. She pushed herself up and drew her knees to her chest as she watched him, his shadowed face somehow both serene and serious as he concentrated. His first two attempts ended with the pebble plopping into the water and sinking straight to the bottom.

“Keep your wrist loose,” she advised.

He smiled at her and tried again, to the same end. She shook her head and stood, moving to stand behind him. Sliding one hand over his hip, she grasped the wrist holding the pebble lightly and tried to adjust his hold. “Loose,” she said again. “Aim straight ahead, not down.”

He tried again. With her hand guiding his, the pebble skipped across the water twice before sinking down to the riverbed. She nuzzled his neck lovingly as she praised, “Better.”

His head tipped back and to the side to encourage her affectionate gesture. She slid both her arms around his torso, splaying her hands out across his chest and belly as she planted a soft kiss to the spot she’d nuzzled. The next pebble sank directly down into the river again.

“I’m distracting you,” she pointed out.

“Please, distract away,” he invited. The pebbles in his hand fell to the ground as he closed his hands over hers. She hugged him closer and kissed the spot on his neck again.

“Betsey?” he asked, bringing the hand on his chest up to his lips.

“Mm?”

He turned in her arms to face her. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

She gazed up into his eyes; they looked warm and bright in the light from the lamp behind them. “I’m…a little disappointed, I suppose, that you’re accepting the appointment to Philadelphia,” she admitted. When his face fell, she amended quickly, “It’s wonderful that you were chosen. Really. I’m so proud of you. I just...I feel like I’m losing you all over again.”   

His expression was earnest and open. “I could still turn it down.”

“No,” she sighed, leaning in to hug him properly. “I don’t want you to turn it down. I’m just going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” he assured her. “So much. You and Pip, you’re the most important people in the world to me. But I’ll come home whenever I can, and you’ll come to visit me, right?” His voice went a little tight at the end, almost worried, as though the consequences of his decision were only just now dawning on him.

“Of course I will,” she promised. His arms tightened around her. “We’ll work it out, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

His face tipped down and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “You’re so amazing. Do you know that?”

She grinned up at him. “I do.”

He laughed.

Eager to lighten the mood, she added, “I must admit, there was another reason I couldn’t sleep."

“What’s that?”

“It’s entirely too hot,” she complained. Even outside with the light breeze off the river, she was getting overheated in his arms. “I can’t even hug you without sweating.”

“Well, we can’t have that. We’ll just need to cool you off.” With no more warning than that, he swept her up into his arms.

She squealed with laughter as she hung on to his neck, her feet kicking ineffectively at the air. They splashed into the water, both still dressed in their nightwear, and when her body was partly submerged, he let her go. She released her hold on his neck and sank under the water for a brief moment; when her feet found the riverbed, she stood, sputtering.

“Better?” he asked.

She smacked him on the arm, but couldn’t contain her laughter at the stunt. The water was gloriously cool, she had to admit. “Yes, I feel better.”

He kicked off the riverbed and began stroking out further into the river, perfectly at ease in the slow current. Although she’d learned how to keep herself afloat in water, paddling along in a manner not dissimilar to her father’s favorite hunting dog, her technique looked nothing like Hamilton’s sure and athletic movements. She bit her lip, keeping her feet firmly on the riverbed as she watched him glide out along the water effortlessly, then dive underwater and shoot back towards her, his feet splashing water up along his path. He popped back up in front of her, splashing her unintentionally.  

She splashed him back lightly and queried, “Where did you learn to swim like that?”

“I’m from an island. Knowing how to swim is something of a necessity,” he answered easily.

She pictured him as a small boy, paddling out into the clear turquoise water of the Caribbean sea. “Did your father teach you?”

He laughed, though there was a note of melancholy in the sound.

“No. Actually Neddy taught me.” His voice brightened at the mention of his childhood friend. “Well, sort of. He pushed me off a dock. I figured out the rest on my own.”

Her eyes widened. “He pushed you off a dock?”

“He went in right after me. I wasn’t in any danger,” he assured her, voice still tinged with amusement at the memory.

“Well, you looked very impressive,” she said.

“Did I?” he asked, a flirtatious edge sneaking into his voice. She could just make out his crooked smirk in the starlight. His arms wrapped around her again, tugging her close. She moved with him, floating off the riverbed slightly as she kissed him in lieu of responding.

Only when she’d pulled back slightly did she noticed he’d walked them out past the point where her feet could touch the riverbed below them. She tightened her arms around him. “What are you doing?”

“You’re fine,” he promised. “Trust me.”

She nodded, relaxing in his arms and letting her feet kick lazily. Glancing upwards as she floated along, she noticed again the endless inky sky above them. “I feel like we’re floating through the stars,” she remarked, then felt foolish for voicing such a silly thought aloud.

“We are,” he whispered softly in her ear.

He spun them around as though they were dancing. She smiled, desperately trying to commit this moment to memory. The moonlight shining on the water created a dreamlike quality, but Hamilton was so warm and solid in her arms. She felt perfectly at peace.

**

They snuck back upstairs as quietly as they’d left, dripping wet and nearly indecent in their clinging white nightshirts. The wood of the stairs felt cool and slippery under her bare feet. When they reached the top, she whispered, “I’ll get us some towels.”

He nodded and padded down the hall towards the nursery, no doubt intent on looking in on Pip before they both retired.

She eased open the linen closet, taking care not to let the hinges creak. Staring at the neatly folded sheets and towels for the second time that night, she felt a soft smile tug at the corners of her lips. Perhaps the delights of peace and domestic happiness wouldn’t be as easy as she’d first hoped, but their love was more than enough to carry them through whatever obstacles lay ahead. She could share that brilliant mind of his with the country for a little while, she decided.

She alone held his heart.

And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John Laurens to Alexander Hamilton, July 1782. 
> 
> Hamilton seemed to be genuinely on the fence about whether to accept the appointment as a delegate to congress. Up until this point, he had been home with Eliza and was relishing being a new father. In March 1782 he wrote to Richard Kidder Meade, "You cannot imagine how entirely domestic I am growing. I lose all taste for the pursuits of ambition. I sigh for nothing but the company of my wife and my baby." John Laurens and James McHenry both weighed in with advice: Laurens that he should do it, McHenry that he should refuse and start his legal practice (No surprise that Laurens won, right?).


	2. Hamilton, September 1782

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the date alone wasn't enough of a warning: discussion of a character death in this chapter

**September 1782**

Hamilton frowned down at the second volume of Blackstone, his lips moving silently as he tried to commit the definition of estoppel by deed to memory. Although the committee reviewing his examination in July had given him very complimentary feedback, he still thought he could have improved on some of his answers to the property questions. He wanted to understand every nuance before being admitted to argue cases before the court in October.

Through the closed door to his cramped office, he heard Eliza speaking to one of the two servant girls they’d hired to help care for the little cottage they were renting. He’d badly wanted a place to call his own as soon as Philip was born. As warm and welcoming as the Schuyler family had been in opening their home, he felt like a failure as a provider the longer they stayed at the Pastures. With his combined income from the army and the position as Receiver of Continental Taxes, and with a good bargain from Mr. Van Rensselaer, who happened to be one of Eliza’s relatives, by last June he finally had enough to rent the little cottage. In the end, he had to admit, it had been something of a waste of resources, as Eliza still favored spending time with her family at the Pastures, and they slept there more nights than not. Even so, he didn’t regret the independence his own home provided.

“Honey?” Eliza’s voice floated through the door, accompanied by a swift knock.

“Yes, darling?”

Eliza opened the door and peeked her head inside the office. “Are you still working?”

He gave the open book in front of him a significant glance, then looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. She knew very well that he was, but that never seemed to stop her from interrupting. Not that he really minded. He smiled fondly and asked, “Is there something you want, my dearest?”

“Philip just went down for his nap, and it’s a beautiful day outside. I thought you might accompany me on a walk,” she suggested.

“What sort of walk?” he asked warily.

She gave him a knowing smirk even as she asked, “What do you mean?”

 He’d learned from experience that his wife’s idea of an easy ramble often included leaping fences and clambering up steep, treacherous hillsides. “Your idea of a walk often feels more like one of Von Steuben’s training drills. Only with less profanity.”  

She laughed. “From me, maybe.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. She responded in kind.

 “We’ll just go around the gardens and out towards the river. Nothing too strenuous, I promise.” When he glanced down at his book again, she pressed, “Please? A little time away from your desk will do you good.”

He sighed, utterly unable to resist her. Snapping the book shut, he rose from his desk and took her outstretched hand in his. She leaned in for a quick kiss before leading him out of the dark office into the front room.

The parlor wasn’t particularly well furnished, but Eliza had done wonders with the little they had, he noted, not for the first time, as they passed through. She’d sewn new covers for the cushions on the chairs, new curtains with a lighter fabric to let more sunlight in through their front window, and crafted an elaborate frame for the miniature portrait he’d gifted her for the wedding, which she’d mounted on the wall above their fireplace. Their sofa and chairs were arranged close together to encourage intimate conversation when friends or relations visited.

“Will I need a coat?” he asked. The summer heat had begun to fade in the past week or so, yielding to a refreshing fall chill, though more so in the mornings and evenings.

Eliza shook her head as she fastened her bonnet. “I don’t think so. It’s very mild. And if you feel chilled, I’ll happily keep you warm.”

He grinned at her and donned his hat from the rack before pulling open the front door. Two birds were chirping merrily back and forth from the tree outside the door as they set off down the stone path, forking left to head back towards the garden. The leaves had just begun to turn, with shocks and red and yellow dotting the green treescape along the North River. Eliza’s hand curled around his again as they plodded along down the path.

“Have you thought about whether we should keep the cottage when I go to Philadelphia?” he asked. He’d be leaving in less than six weeks, and he’d have to make arrangements with Mr. Van Rensselaer if Eliza wanted to move back to the Pastures permanently in his absence.

Her gaze flickered over to the guest quarters which they’d let out to the widowed Mrs. Sims. “Would giving it up mean forcing Mrs. Sims to leave as well?”

He shook his head. “I could make arrangements for her to remain, even we cut our lease short.”

She bit her lip and glanced sidelong at him, hesitating. She didn’t want to disappoint him, he sensed, but she didn’t want to stay, either. He squeezed her hand.

“All I want is for you to be happy, my angel.”

A small smile curved the corners of her lips. “I just think I’d be lonely here without you.”

“Well, I would never want that,” he assured her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll write to Mr. Van Rensselaer and let him know we’ll be leaving.”

She nodded, and leaned closer, so that their shoulders bumped as they walked. They lapsed into a comfortable quiet as they made their way towards the river. White fluffy clouds drifted through the blue sky above them. The sun felt wonderfully warm in the cool breeze, shining down on them like a warm embrace. He smiled as he turned his face up towards it and sighed contentedly.

The war was officially winding down, with no more active combat predicted. Before he left for Philadelphia, he would be a fully qualified attorney. One year of government service to do his bit to help the new nation onto her feet, and then he’d be done. Hopefully by that time, the British would have evacuated New York, and he and Eliza could move to the city where he could start his practice in earnest. After five long years of fighting, he could finally enjoy the fruits of peace with his little family.

**

“Hold your son,” Eliza directed, plopping Pip into his lap later that night. “He refuses to fall asleep, and I’d like to take a bath at some point tonight.”

He closed the book he’d been reading and placed it beside him on the sofa to focus his attention on his son. Pip’s eyelids looked heavy, but he was also wearing an expression of stubborn determination. “Mama’s so unreasonable, wanting time to herself to bath,” he cooed at the baby.

“I can still hear you,” Eliza interjected.

He wrinkled his face into a silly expression, which made Pip smile. Two of his bottom teeth had just recently cut through his gums, the little white spots visible in his open mouth grin. The new teeth were likely the reason for him being ornery the past few weeks. Repositioning the baby onto his knee, he bounced his leg lightly. Pip bounced his weight along with the motion as he always did, enjoying the ride.

Eliza’s heels clacked lightly on the wooden floor as she made her way back towards him, approaching from behind. A stack of mail landed on the side table, and he felt her press a kiss to the crown of his head. He tipped his head back against the sofa to look up at her.

“You need to go through that. Your letters are starting to pile up,” she ordered.

“Yes, dear,” he agreed. She patted at his cheek gently, and stretched forward to tickle Pip lightly before she set off for her bath.

After several minutes of bouncing, Pip’s head began to droop. Hamilton cuddled the boy against him, easing the bouncing to a stop as he slowly rubbed Pip’s back. Pip snuggled against his chest, rubbing his forehead against his father’s collarbone. Hamilton’s eyes closed, a powerful wave of affection for his little child washing over him.

“Shh,” he soothed, when Pip’s head popped back up as he rose from the sofa. He rubbed Pip’s back again and gently rocked his weight side to side to lull the boy back to sleep. Humming the lullaby he remembered his mother singing to him, he continued rocking until Pip had dozed off. The baby’s mouth had fallen open as he slept, and drool leaked out the corner of his lip onto Hamilton’s white shirt. His little fist clenched around the material of the shirt when Hamilton bent to lower his son into the nearby cradle.

When Pip had been successfully transferred into his cradle, Hamilton relaxed back on the sofa, keeping his foot on the rocker so he could continue the gentle motion until Pip was more deeply asleep. Sighing, he turned his attention to the stack of mail beside him. Most were official business having to do with his post as tax collector, he noted as he thumbed through the pile: one from Robert Benson and another from Robert Morris. Towards the bottom of the stack, however, he noticed an envelope with a South Carolina address. Someone must be forwarding him a letter from Jack, he thought with a smile, tearing into that letter first.

He’d been waiting for a response to his last letter, where he’d reported that he was taking Jack’s advice and going to Congress. Of course, Jack had hoped he’d use that office as a stepping stone to be named Minister plenipotentiary for peace. “ _I hope it is too late_ ,” he’d written. “ _We have great reason to flatter ourselves peace on our own terms is upon the carpet_.” And with peace so clearly on the horizon, he’d ended with a plea of his own to his dearest friend. “ _Quit your sword my friend, put on the toga, come to Congress. We know each others sentiments, our views are the same: we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy._ ”*

When he finished tearing the seal and unfolded the letter, he frowned. No enclosed letter from Jack had tumbled out. His eyes fell onto the looping script. Words and phrases leapt out at him, fragments without context. Regret to inform. Combahee River. A credit to the nation. Hero.

His hands were shaking.

He didn’t understand. He kept reading, over and over, trying to make sense of the words. The fighting was over, he wanted to argue. They were daily expecting news of a peace agreement. Jack was going to join him in Congress. Jack was going to help him decide what to do to ensure the future prosperity of the nation.  

The inked words remained unchanged.

He was trembling all over.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense.

“Sweetheart?” He smelled Eliza’s rose soap as she sat beside him, her weight causing the sofa cushion to shift. One of her hands traced over his  shoulder. “Is everything all right?”

He swallowed. Words tumbled from his mouth in a confused jumble. “I don’t…Jack, he…there was…I don’t…I don’t understand.”

Eliza’s hand rested over his to steady it, and he heard her inhale sharply as she read the letter.

He shook his head stubbornly. “No. No. The war’s over.”

“Honey,” she whispered.

“It’s over,” he insisted. He looked over to see her face crumpled with sympathetic grief. Tears welled in his eyes, making everything around him blurry. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

A sob tore out of his chest, painful in its intensity. The letter fluttered to the floor as he clutched his hands into fists against the overwhelming agony as the realization finally sank in.

Jack was gone.

“Why?” he repeated brokenly.

Eliza guided him to her, so that his head rested against her shoulder. He clutched onto her. Tears soaked into the delicate material of her dressing gown. She rubbed his back and rocked him gently.

“It’s not fair,” he heard himself moaning, over and over.

“I know, sweetheart,” Eliza repeated back to him, patient and perfect as she held him through the pain. “I know it’s not.”

No amount of comforting could ease this heartbreak. He cried himself sick, and when Eliza managed to get him to bed, he turned his face into his pillow and cried even more. His dearest friend, his closest companion, had been stolen away. And for no reason he could comprehend.  

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Jack.

The war was supposed to be over.

But what sort of peace was this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, 15 August 1782
> 
> First, a quick note about the Hamiltons living arrangements in Albany. I'd always kind of assumed that they stayed at the Pastures with Eliza's family until they moved to New York, but I recently read a letter dated 12 October 1782 from Hamilton to an unknown recipient (who was likely Philip Van Rensselaer), where he tries to negotiate to break the lease on a house. Apparently Eliza planned to move back to her parents house when he went to Philadelphia. So while I think they did still spend a tremendous amount of time at the Schuyler mansion, it's interesting that they tried to set up their own household. 
> 
> And now on to the heartbreak. Oh, Laurens. At least I tried to ease you into it with some fluff at the beginning, right? So, it's not clear exactly when or how Hamilton was informed of Laurens' death, but he definitely knew by October, when he mentioned it to General Greene. The really painful letter, though, is the one Hamilton wrote to Lafayette in November. The mention of Laurens is tacked on at the end, as if Hamilton could barely bring himself to write it. Losing John Laurens was a huge blow, and it marks a major turning point for Hamilton. I imagine it shattered a lot of idealism that Hamilton was forming around the idea of peace. The last letter Hamilton wrote to Laurens is often quoted, but reading it in its entirety just drives home how tragic and terrible Laurens' death really was. Hamilton wrote to him, "Peace made, My Dear friend, a new scene opens." Sadly, that new scene would be a lot darker and lonelier than Hamilton had first imagined.


	3. Eliza, January 1783

**January 1783  
**

Pip wriggled in her arms as Eliza mounted the stairs of the Philadelphia boarding house. Sunlight poured in from the windows on either end of the hallway, creating a warm, cheery atmosphere despite the fading wallpaper and worn floorboards that decorated the second floor. Suitable accommodations for a junior delegate on a budget were difficult to find in the overcrowded city, but she found herself approving of his choice already.

“Mm, Mama,” Pip whined, face pinched as he wiggled harder in an attempt to get down. His patience for traveling had been expended days ago. Not that she could blame him; after weeks in a cramped coach with her parents and her younger siblings, she was more than ready to settle into the little apartment with her husband. If she never saw the inside of a coach again, it would be too soon.

She adjusted him in her arms and pressed a kiss to the part of his cheek not covered by the winter clothing in which she’d bundled him. Pitching her voice up with forced good humor, she explained again, “We’re going to see Papa. Do you want to see Papa?”

A sunny smile overtook the baby’s face at the mention of his father. He twisted in her arms, holding two fistfuls of her dress for balance. “Papa!”

“He’s just in here, dearest,” she assured him. Their rooms were the last on the left, the landlady had informed her. She paused before the door, listening. She could hear voices in the room, muffled only slightly by the thin door.

“We mustn’t abide any plan that makes only partial provision for the debt,” she heard her husband’s melodic voice arguing. “Why should we prefer our European creditors to our domestic? I’ll not see America dishonored by the likes of Rutledge.”1  

“We are of one mind, Mr. Hamilton,” an unfamiliar voice responded. His companion was more softly spoken than her husband, but she heard the tell-tale drawl of a Virginian nonetheless.

She hesitated. If he was busy, perhaps she should go back to the townhouse her father had rented for his stay in Philadelphia? The thought of getting back into a coach made her groan internally.

Pip made the decision for her, calling out excitedly, “Papa!”

Soft shuffling preceded the door flying open. Hamilton’s face was split with a grin as he looked at them. “Oh, my darling, darling boy,” he cooed, reaching out the gather Pip into his arms. He peppered the little boy’s face in kisses. “I missed you so much!”

Pip giggled happily, his whiny, foul mood all but forgotten.

Eliza smiled fondly at the pair, subtly stretching her arms, which had grown sore from carrying the heavy child. Her gaze passed over the small but cozy living quarters to land on the companion she’d heard moment’s ago.

The unknown gentleman had risen from one of the chairs set near the fireplace. He had a youthful, moon-like face, round and pale, made to appear all the more so by his stark black clothing. He had the look of sickly, but severe clergyman, to Eliza’s eye. The smile he wore appeared genuine, but foreign, as if he rarely found occasion to make merry.

He bowed politely. “Mrs. Hamilton, I presume.”

Hamilton glanced up as she curtsied politely in return, attention reluctantly drawn away from his son. “Betsey, this is Jemmy Madison. He’s a delegate to Congress as well.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting Mr. Madison,” she apologized. Though, looking back at her husband, she thought she must not have interrupted anything too important or official. He was still dressed in a banyan and slippers, even though it was mid-morning, and she spotted the morning paper crumpled up on the table beside the chair opposite Mr. Madison.

“Not at all, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mr. Madison replied easily. He moved towards the door and gathered his coat from the rack as he addressed Hamilton, “I’ll not intrude on your family reunion. Perhaps we could continue our conversation tomorrow?”

“You should come for dinner tomorrow, Mr. Madison,” Eliza invited. “Perhaps you could bring your family?”

Madison flushed lightly. “Alas, Madame, I remain a bachelor. And I have a very strict diet, necessitated by a poor digestion.”

“Well, you should come yourself, sir. I’ll invite my sister, and we’ll have a proper dinner party. I assure you, I’ve learned how to cater to a sensitive stomach.” She poked Hamilton playfully in the stomach to illustrate her point. Hamilton laughed and made a face at her.

“You may as well agree, Jemmy. She seems quite set on this,” Hamilton advised.

The same slightly awkward smile stretched Madison’s cheeks again. “If you insist, Madame, I will be happy to attend.”

“Wonderful,” Eliza replied, making sure to keep her voice warm and welcoming.

She curtsied again, and Hamilton adjusted Pip in his arms to clap Madison on the back companionably before he left. Madison wasn’t the sort of fellow she’d expect Hamilton to be drawn to, but she was eager to encourage any connections he made. He’d been so distant with everyone but her and Philip lately, as if he’d walled off part of heart so as not the be hurt again. The loss of Jack Laurens had wounded him deeply.

After seeing Madison out, she stripped off her heavy traveling cloak and hung it on the rack in place of Madison’s coat. She then turned back to her husband, leaned in for a kiss, and wished, “Happy birthday, my love.”

His smile grew impossibly wider. “Thank you. I didn’t expect to see you for another few weeks.”

“Papa had business in the city. We left just after Christmas,” she explained. “I was hoping to surprise you.”

 “You succeeded.” He leaned in to kiss her again. Pip whined unhappily at losing his father’s undivided attention, and one of his little hands tapped Hamilton on the cheek. Hamilton laughed and pulled back to look at his son again. “I think I ought to unwrap this cuddly, giggly little gift you brought me. I feel certain there’s a baby in here somewhere.”

“I didn’t want him to be cold,” she defended, even as she laughed. She’d dressed Pip in a hat, scarf, and several layers of clothing. He’d also been wrapped in a blanket while they traveled in the coach.

He removed the hat and scarf, and then gave an exaggerated gasp of surprise. “Pip! It’s you!” Pip giggled with delight. After several more kisses, Pip began to squirm, wanting to get down again. “All right, all right,” Hamilton sighed, lowering the child to the floor to explore the new space.

They both watched as Pip crawled towards the window seat at the back of the room. She felt Hamilton’s eyes on her, and turned to see him smiling at her. He held out his arms to invite her in for an embrace.

“Oh, I get a turn now?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “Like you wouldn’t go for Pip first if the situation were reversed.”

She nodded, conceding the point, and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you,” she told him softly.

“Not as much as I’ve missed you,” he retorted, squeezing her against him. “The post has been delayed for weeks, depriving me even of your letters. I’ve hardly been able to sleep for missing you.”2

She hummed sympathetically and ran her hand up and down his back.  

“Well, come in and sit down by the fire. You must be half frozen,” he invited after kissing her deeply one more time. She agreed easily. Pip had crawled under a table and plopped down as if it were a fort, she noted, as she made her way to the armchair Madison had vacated. “Do you want some tea?”

“No, not right now,” she refused. “I’m just grateful to sit somewhere stationary.”

He chuckled, and asked, “Do you have any baggage to bring up?”

“Papa’s going to send Prince over with it later,” she explained. “Everything was all mixed together when we arrived, and I didn’t want to wait for everyone to settle in before coming to see you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Hamilton sat down in the chair across from her. He waved an arm at the surrounding room as he asked, “So, what do you think?”

“It’s more spacious than you described in your letters, and the light it good,” she praised. “Of course, I’m partial to any room that has you in it.”

It was the sort of line he liked to use on her.

“Why, Mrs. Hamilton, I’m blushing.”

She winked at him, which made him laugh again. Oh, how she’d missed his laugh the past few months. She couldn’t stand being away from him.

“How was the trip down?” he asked, sipping at the tea cup on the table beside him.

She groaned. “Well, Mama brought Cornelia and Kitty, and I had Philip, so we had three little ones in the coach with us for a start. And Mama and Papa are fighting with Peggy over her latest beau. When the children weren’t whining or complaining, Mama, Papa, and Peggy were bickering.”

“Sounds lovely,” he commented with a wry smile. “May I inquire who this new beau is?”

“Stephen Van Rensselaer,” she said with a long sigh.

Hamilton’s brow furrowed. “Your father objects to a Van Rensselaer?”

She nodded.

 “I’m beginning to grow very confused as to what your father considers a worthy match for his daughters. The Van Rensselaers are one of the wealthiest families in New York. He knows I lived in tent when he gave me permission to marry you, right?”

She snorted. “You were in the army.”

“Which made it more socially acceptable, but  no less financially necessary.”

She rolled her eyes at the exaggeration. “It’s not so much that he objects to the match. He just wants Peggy to wait a few years. Stephen’s a bit young to be married.”

“How old is he?”

“Just nineteen,” she answered.

He whistled under his breath. “Peggy won’t wait?”

“She says she’s ready to settle down now. She is nearly twenty-five, after all. She wants to be a wife and a mother as soon as possible.”

“Well, she’s made a fine choice. She’ll accomplish both goals at once,” he quipped.

She gave him a warning glance. “Don’t say anything like that in front of her. She’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m only teasing,” he promised. “Five or six years difference isn’t so much. Were their ages reversed, no one would so much as blink an eye.”

“Tell that to Papa.”

He held up his hands in refusal.

They sat talking for a while more. Pip eventually grew bored with exploring and crawled back over to them. He pulled himself up, holding on to Hamilton’s chair, and held his arms up. Hamilton obligingly lifted him to sit him in his lap.

“He’s getting better at pulling himself up,” he remarked of Pip’s new found talent for standing on his wobbly legs. “Has he taken any steps?”

“Not exactly. He’ll stand up and sort of hurl himself in the direction he wants to go. I’ve been doing a lot of diving catches for the past few weeks.”

Hamilton cuddled Pip close and kissed the top of his head. “My strange little child.”

A knock came at the door.

She moved to get up, but Hamilton motioned for her to sit and placed Pip in her lap. “Relax,” he ordered, kissing her gently. “I’ll get it.”

She smiled adoringly at him as he went for the door. Expecting it was Prince with her baggage, she was surprised to see Peggy when Hamilton opened the door.

“Happy birthday!”

Peggy flung herself forward to embrace her husband.

“Thank you,” Hamilton replied, returning the enthusiastic hug in kind. “Come in, sweetheart.”

“Prince is coming up with your trunk,” Peggy informed Eliza as she entered and flung herself into the chair Hamilton had just vacated. He left the door open for Prince and pulled over one of the wooden chairs from the table to sit beside Eliza. “Mama and Papa said to tell you that they’re planning a birthday dinner for Hamilton today.”

“That’s very kind of them,” Hamilton said.

“No, it’s horrible,” Peggy moaned dramatically.

Hamilton’s expression turned playfully wounded, and he held a hand to his heart.  

 “Not because of you,” she laughed, though her expression soured again immediately. “We’ve barely been here an hour, and Mama’s already invited every eligible bachelor in Philadelphia to the dinner. She’s hoping to turn my head towards another gentleman.”

“Ah, yes, I heard cupid has struck you again. A Mr. Van Rensselaer this time, is it?”

Peggy’s expression turned soft and sincere. “I love him.”

Hamilton’s face softened as well.

Before either of them could respond, Prince appeared in the doorway, struggling with her heavy traveling trunk. Hamilton rose to assist him the rest of the way into the room, and Eliza placed Pip on her sister’s lap. “Thank you, Prince,” she said, motioning where she wanted the case.

“Should I wait for you, Miss Schuyler?” Prince inquired.

“Do you mind if I stay here with you?” Peggy asked Hamilton.

“Of course not,” Hamilton assured her.

“Tell Mama and Papa I’ll be over with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton later,” Peggy told Prince.

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded and departed.

Eliza kneeled down before the trunk to start unpacking her things, Hamilton still standing at her side. His fingers carded gently through her hair. “You’re unpacking now? While we have company?”

“We don’t have company. We have Peggy,” she retorted. Peggy stuck her tongue out at her from her armchair. Hamilton laughed at the two of them before he paced back to the fireplace to entertain her sister.

“So, you love him?” Hamilton asked, picking up the dropped thread of their conversation.  

Peggy nodded miserably.

“But not enough to wait a few years to marry him?”

“I shouldn’t have to wait,” Peggy argued. “He’s already graduated from Harvard. He’ll be taking control of Rensselaerswyck as soon as he turns twenty-one, and both our families are willing to assist us financially until then. And I’m nearly twenty-five; another three years, and I’ll be nearly thirty. I don’t want to wait that long to start having children.”

Eliza pulled some of Pip’s blocks and his toy soldiers from the trunk. As much as she  sympathized with her sister’s plight, she’d heard this conversation several times in the coach on the way down from Albany. She hardly had anything new to contribute to the conversation.

“You’re sure he’s the one? This isn’t another of your passing fancies?” Hamilton pressed.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Peggy sighed. “He’s everything you said I deserved, Hammy. He’s kind and handsome, with good sense and imagination, and very decisive. He makes me feel lucky, the same way you said Eliza makes you feel.”3

Eliza paused in her unpacking to give her husband a fond look. Was that how he described himself feeling to Peggy? She understood, of course; she felt the same way each and every day.

“Will you talk to Papa for me? Please? He’ll listen to you,” Peggy pleaded.

Hamilton rose and leaned over to kiss Peggy’s forehead. “For my little sister? Anything.”

“Oh, thank you!” She held Pip with one arm and reached up with the other to give Hamilton a half embrace.

“I can’t promise it will make any difference, though.”

“No, it will. I know it will!”  

Hamilton looked over at Eliza before he resumed his seat. They shared a look, both communicating doubt silently. Papa did have a particular soft spot for her husband, she supposed. Perhaps him intervening on Peggy’s behalf would make a difference. If not, she knew Peggy wouldn’t hesitate a moment in following Angelica’s example. Whatever happened, Stephen Van Rensselaer would soon be a part of their family, of that she had no doubt.

Reaching back into the trunk to reorganize some of her dresses, she laid hand on the ceremonial sword Hamilton had requested she bring along. Actually, he’d asked her to send it with her father when he left for Philadelphia in November, but her father had delayed his trip to spend Christmas with the family.4 She pulled it from the trunk and held it up for him to view. “Sweetheart? Where do you want this?”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll take it,” he said, standing again to take the sword from her hand.

“Are your debates going so poorly that you’re planning to resort to physical attacks on the Congress floor?” Peggy inquired teasingly.

“I can’t say I haven’t considered it,” Hamilton replied, half serious. “But I need it more for formal events where I wear my uniform.”

“Ah,” Peggy nodded.

“What time is this dinner Mama’s planning?” Eliza asked Peggy while Hamilton strode into the adjoining bedroom to store his sword.

“Guests are to start arriving at three, with dinner at four. Simple fare, of course, but she did find a few musicians, so there’ll be dancing.” Peggy’s shoulders rose and her face was alight with false enthusiasm.

“I’m sure it will be fun,” Eliza tried to assure her. Her mother seemed very committed to finding an alternate suitor for Peggy. She highly doubted Catherine Schuyler would go to this kind of effort simply to honor Hamilton’s birthday.

“Mm,” Peggy grunted, clearly unconvinced.

Peggy eventually rose to assist Eliza in unpacking, and then plopped down on the floor with Pip to play with his newly unpacked toys. Hamilton had returned to reading his paper in his armchair, which he then traded for a thick book on finance, still dressed in his banyan and slippers. A little before two, Eliza tapped his foot as she passed him and asked, “Are you going to dress at some point today?”

He smirked, still studying his book. “Maybe.”

“It’s his birthday,” Peggy interjected. “He should wear what he likes.”

“You’re explaining it to my mother, then,” she warned him.

He widened his eyes comically, and made a show of tossing his book aside and rushing to stand. “I’ll dress right away.”

“I thought so,” she winked. Before he could move towards the bedroom, though, she caught him for a kiss. Good God, how she’d missed him.  

“Mm,” he sighed, keeping his eyes closed a moment after she pulled away.

When Eliza turned around, Peggy had a sappy smile on her face. “You two are adorable.”

“We know.” Hamilton smirked as he disappeared into the bedroom to change.

They arrived at her parents’ house a little before three. Eliza dropped Pip in the nursery with Cornelia and Kitty before joining the party. Peggy had exaggerated the number of bachelor’s her mother had invited, but there was a noticeable imbalance of men and women at the party. Despite the party clearly having an ulterior motive, Hamilton seemed to enjoy himself. He sat near her father, and the two quietly discussed public credit and machinations of Congress. Eliza pulled her chair over to sit near her husband, not particularly interested in their conversation, but eager to be close to him.

When the music began in the front parlor, Eliza saw several men look hopefully at her younger sister. Peggy bounced up from her seat and stood directly in front of Hamilton. “Might I have the first dance, my dear brother?”

Eliza saw Hamilton glance over at Catherine Schuyler, who was looking at them with a severe expression. Hamilton then looked back at Peggy’s outstretched hand. His gaze then fell down to the table. Eliza tried to hide a smile, wondering if he was planning to sink under the table to escape that way.

“I’d like the first dance with him, if you don’t mind, Peggy,” Eliza said.

Peggy deflated, but Hamilton gave Eliza a grateful smile and held out his hand. As they passed Peggy, he kissed her cheek and whispered, “I’ll rescue you later if you need it, I promise.”

Peggy heaved a sigh, but nodded.

The first dance was quick paced and swift. When Eliza managed to glance at her sister between spins, Peggy appeared to be having a good time. She didn’t doubt her sister’s feelings for Stephen, but Peggy had never had difficulty enjoying herself in a room full of eligible gentleman. Hamilton never did have to come to her rescue.

They danced for hours. Eliza absolutely refused to give her husband up as a dancing partner, despite the high number of gentleman seated along the edges of the parlor. Hamilton hardly seemed to mind. They spun around each other, grasping hands and stealing kisses late into the evening.

Pip had fallen asleep in the nursery by the time they went to fetch him to go home.

“Leave him to sleep,” Catherine advised. “Come for breakfast tomorrow and pick him up then.”

Eliza disliked the idea of leaving him, but he slept so peacefully in the crib that she didn’t have the heart to wake him to bring him home. Hamilton looked even less pleased at leaving Pip behind. He leaned low over the crib to kiss the baby, and ran his hand over Pip’s chest and tummy gently. Pip didn’t wake.

“We’ll come back first thing tomorrow,” Hamilton agreed reluctantly.

Later that night, lying in bed, Eliza held a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. In the dim light of the bedroom, she could just make out her husband at the far end of the room, entirely undressed and drinking down a cup of water. She snuggled into the pillows to enjoy the view.

“Do you want some?” he asked, dragging a hand across his mouth and holding up the cup.

“Yes, please,” she requested.

He poured more water from the pitcher into the cup and climbed back into bed beside her. She pushed herself up on her elbow to drink, then handed the cup back for him to place on the bedside table. When he relaxed back against the pillows, she rolled over to hold him, her legs tangling with his.

“Did you have a good birthday?” she asked sleepily.

“I had the best birthday,” he replied in a low whisper.

“Good.” She laid her head on his chest, over his heart. “You’ll be home all day tomorrow, too, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed. “Congress doesn’t meet again until Monday morning.”

“From what you said to Papa tonight, it seems to be going well,” she remarked. Her finger lazily traced patterns onto his toned stomach as she spoke. He was doing the same along her back, and he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

“I suppose. It’s mostly frustrating.”

She adjusted to look up at him, frowning. “Why?”

“A few of us have ideas, good ideas, to improve our governing system. We need to overhaul public credit, but the central government needs more power to tax to do that. Most delegates are too loyal to their states, or too disinterested in doing anything, to get anything done.”

“Is that what you and Mr. Madison were discussing this morning?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. She cuddled closer to him while he explained his plans to strengthen the government and fix the country’s credit. His voice was soft, but passionate. She felt conflicted as she watched him speak. She was glad he was so engaged with his work, but the more she heard him talk about his ideas, the more certain she was that a single term in Congress wouldn’t be the end of his public service.

“You seem happy,” she said, when he paused in his explanation of his plans.

“Of course I’m happy. I’m here with you,” he said, his palm soothing along her back.

“I mean with your work,” she clarified.

“It is...fulfilling, in a way,” he agreed. “But I’ll be glad when my term is up. I’d rather be home with you.”  

It’s all she wanted, too, but even as he said it, she felt in her gut that a return to domestic life wouldn’t be permanent. She didn’t argue with him, though. Stretching her neck up, she kissed him and ran her hand through his hair. He nuzzled her hair and pulled her closer.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she wished again as they settled in for sleep.

They were together for now. That was all that mattered, she told herself.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 From James Madison’s notes on debates in the Continental Congress, 29 January 1783  
> 2 Hamilton to Eliza, 8 January 1783  
> 3 Hamilton to Margarita Schuyler, 21 January 1781  
> 4 Hamilton to Eliza, 18 November 1783
> 
> A very long, fluffy, domestic chapter to make up for not posting anything last week :D I wanted to introduce Madison and get a little more quality time with Peggy here, since she hasn't popped up very often in my other fics. Peggy and Stephen Van Rensselaer married in June 1783. While Philip Schuyler did seem to voice reservations about the match due to Van Rensselaer's age, they don't seem to have fully eloped the same way Angelica and later, Cornelia, did. 
> 
> Also, I suspect I put Eliza in Philadelphia a lot sooner than she actually arrived, but I wanted to give Ham a happy 26th birthday. He was just starting to hope she had left Albany on January 8th of 1783. But, his birthday happened to land on a Saturday that year, and I couldn't resist. (A war hero and congressman at the age of 26--boy, does that put life in harsh perspective, huh?)


	4. Hamilton, June 1783

**June 1783**

The sharp crack of thick glass breaking caused every delegate trapped in the tense upstairs meeting room of the State House to flinch and duck forward. Hamilton’s hand twitched to the sword on his hip out of habit, even though the ceremonial blade was blunted and useless. Turning in his seat, he looked up at the topmost window pane and saw a long line running the length of the glass. One of the mutinous soldiers must have thrown a rock, he guessed, for a bullet surely would have shattered the window entirely. 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his pulse still racing from the shock.

“Patience,” Jemmy counseled beside him. The Virginian’s expression was tense, and he coughed weakly into a handkerchief as soon as he finished speaking. Hamilton reached over to pat his arm companionably.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

Jemmy smiled weakly and nodded.

The tense quiet descended upon the room once more. The grandfather clock in the back of the room ticked loudly, a stark reminder that the time set by the soldiers for negotiation had already lapsed. Even his own breathing sounded loud to his ears.

“Perhaps, if we were to simply allow them to appoint officers to air their grievances…” A small voice coming from a huddle of delegates in the back corner of the room trailed off at the sharp look from Elias Boudinot, the current President of the Congress.  

“I fear our Revolution shall have been in vain if the representatives of the people can so easily be brought to their knees by the merest threat of violence,” Boudinot reiterated. “I’ll take no measures whatever towards addressing their grievances while we are so menaced.”

Hamilton nodded approvingly at the rebuke.

They were warned two days ago that eighty well-armed soldiers had departed without leave from their Lancaster barracks with the intention of marching on Congress to demand compensation for their service before accepting the furloughs that had been issued. They arrived yesterday despite the best attempts of Major Jackson to turn them back, and immediately joined forces with troops in the local Philadelphia barracks. Delegates from only six states had assembled when the State House was surrounded by several hundred armed troops. John Dickinson had carried in a note from the soldiers half an hour ago, which demanded authorization to send officers before the Congress to state their case. If the demand was not met in twenty minutes, the note threatened, the violent Soldiery would be unleashed upon the Congress.   

An excited clamor carried up through the closed windows, and he heard the distant but distinct crack of rifle fire. They were fast running out of time. He closed his eyes, hunting for a solution.

What would Jack have done, he asked himself, fighting down the wave of grief that always accompanied a reminder of his friend’s absence. Jack wouldn’t have remained cowering inside, that much was certain. Bold, decisive action was required in such dire circumstances.

“Sir,” Hamilton addressed Boudinot, rising from his chair. “I move that the committee be authorized to address the soldiers. Perhaps they can be prevailed upon to return to their barracks, at least temporarily.”

He wasn’t sure if Richard Peters or Oliver Ellsworth would join him, but he’d go alone if necessary. The three of them had been authorized to confer with the executive council and to take whatever actions they deemed necessary in the face of the threat from the Lancaster soldiers. Extracting the besieged delegates from their imprisonment certainly felt necessary to him.

“What say the other committee members?” Boudinot asked, looking to the other side of the room where Peters and Ellsworth were seated close together, despite representing Pennsylvania and Connecticut, respectively. In the chaos and excitement, none of them had bothered with the formality of staying with their state delegations.

The two seasoned politicians exchanged a significant look and rose to address Boudinot as well. “General Washington used reason to keep the peace at Newburgh this spring. I believe it is wise to follow his example, as Colonel Hamilton suggests,” Ellsworth agreed.

Hamilton had to swallow down a snort at the characterization of Washington’s performance at Newburgh as an appeal to reason. The good old General’s coup de grace had been to dramatically place glasses on his nose, asserting that he had been grown gray and nearly blind in service to his country. It had been a blatant, and, frankly brilliant, appeal to the soldiers’ emotions. He’d heard every soldier in the room had left weeping.

Still, he appreciated Ellsworth’s invocation of the Great Man in these circumstances. No one could question the wisdom of a plan employed by General Washington himself. Boudinot frowned, clearly recognizing this, and nodded. “The committee is so authorized.”

They pushed their chairs back into place, the chair legs scraping audibly on the wooden floor, and set off towards the door together. Ellsworth reached the door first, and held it open for Peters and himself. Boudinot followed after them; Hamilton felt the older man’s hands land on his shoulders as soon as he exited the chamber.

“You are authorized to appeal to their reason to compel them to disperse, and that is all. This is not a negotiation,” Boudinot reminded them calmly. “I’ll not receive their representatives in the chamber.”

“We understand,” Peters assured him.

As Ellsworth and Peters moved off, Boudinot added, in a low, confiding tone, “And Alex?”

Hamilton smiled at the familiar form of address. Boudinot had taken him in when he was attending prep school in New Jersey, and had treated him like family ever since. “Yes, sir?”

“Be careful.” 

He nodded once, decisively, then followed the path of the two older men to the stairs. The hollering of the troops grew louder as they approached the main door to the State House. He laid his hand on the ceremonial sword once more for comfort, immensely glad he’d decided to wear his dress uniform today.

“I’ll go out first,” he decided.

“And if they kill you on sight?” Ellsworth asked, a twinkle in his eye betraying the question as the kind of gallows humor Hamilton knew well. Though Ellsworth was not a military man himself, he’d overseen war expenditures for Connecticut and served on the committee of safety, both of which had given him plenty of experience with angry soldiers.

“Then I wouldn’t recommend following me,” Hamilton replied with a wry smile.

“Duly noted,” Peters chuckled. He, too, was intimately acquainted with the realities of war and managing an army. He’d been Secretary of the Board of War for many years, and remained a close friend of Baron Von Steuben. “Shall you speak first, Ellsworth? You’ve the most experience talking down men who haven’t been paid.”

“I’ll give it try,” Ellsworth agreed.

Plan as well formed as possible in the circumstances, they nodded to each other, and Hamilton unbarred the door.

A group of disheveled men were clustered just outside, their rifles carelessly leaning against the wall as they passed around a flask. The familiar smells of unwashed men, gun powder, and rum brought him right back to all those days he’d spent in army camps over his six years of military service. His spine straightened and he narrowed his eyes as the men turned to look at him.

“Make way, Sergeant,” he ordered gruffly to the man standing closest to him.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant obeyed easily, stumbling backwards down the steps, clearly due to a combination of habit and shock at the sudden appearance of a high ranking officer.

A hush fell as the men nearby took notice of him. His years as Washington’s aide had made him an easily recognizable figure to most of the army, and he could hear soft whispers as those that did not know him on sight were quickly informed. When it was clear that no one was making any threatening moves towards him, he gestured for Peters and Ellsworth to follow him out.

Ellsworth cleared his throat. “I want first the thank you all for your hard work and your sacrifice in service to our country. Our nation is greatly indebted to its loyal soldiers, from our most distinguished officers, such as General Washington—” He was forced to pause as a cheer of huzzahs rose through the ranks. “And our own Colonel Hamilton, whose brave attack helped secure the victory at Yorktown—” Another wave of huzzahs sounded as Ellsworth nodded to him, though Hamilton suspected it was more for the victory than for himself. “Down to our lowest private. You are all owed a debt every one of us in Congress is eager to repay with the compensation you all deserve.”

Whoops and cheers erupted at the word compensation, and Hamilton tensed as he saw men raising their rifles above their heads. A clamor of voices rose up, demands to send in officers and for money to be handed out on the spot all overlapping into an unintelligible din. Ellsworth glanced back at him nervously, but Hamilton nodded him on. This was hardly his first time standing up before a mob, and he knew composure, conviction, and a cool head could work wonders.

“Yes, we are all committed to seeing justice done for you,” Ellsworth called, trying to take back his command of the crowd. “But this unrepublican display dishonors your service.”

A threatening grumble emanated from the crowd. Hamilton stepped forward, closer to Ellsworth, and forced himself to recollect the account he’d read of the General’s address at Newburgh. After so many years of echoing Washington’s sentiments, both on paper and in person, the words came easily to him now.

“Did not the General say to us all, that the idea of taking up arms against our own country has something so shocking in it that humanity revolts at the idea? Can one who would threaten our chosen representatives with force of arms to subvert our republican process be a friend to the army or to this country? On the verge of peace, would you open the floodgates of civil discord and deluge our rising empire in blood?”1

Though not the exact wording, the familiar phrases from Washington’s address at Newburgh were enough to make even the rowdiest in the crowd cast their eyes towards the ground.  A few of the men who seemed to be leading the mess, as much as anyone could lead it, were exchanging guilty glances. The will for a vengeful assault seemed to be waning.

 _Thank God_ , he thought silently.

Peters stepped forward to make the closing plea. “Please friends, countrymen, return to your barracks. Your grievances will be heard and considered in the proper order. But this is not the way. You’ve sacrificed much for our country; I beg you not to falter now.”

The three then stepped back into the State House.

Hamilton peeked out the window to see one of the leaders turn to address the crowds. He couldn’t hear exactly what was said, but no more war whoops or calls for blood seemed forthcoming from the soldiers. After what seemed an eternity, he saw the men shoulder their muskets and begin to march off, back in the direction of the barracks.

All three of released a long, loud sigh of relief at the sight.

“Well, that was bracing,” Ellsworth commented as they mounted the stairs.

Hamilton laughed, his shoulders sagging in a final release of tension.

Boudinot was waiting on the landing, and as soon as they came into sight, he demanded, “What’s happened?”

“They’ve marched off,” Peters reported. “I think it’s safe to depart for now.”

“Thank God,” Boudinot sighed.

“Thank Hamilton and his ability to conjure General Washington with a well turned phrase at a moment’s notice,” Ellsworth corrected. “You’d think the man himself had addressed them with how spellbound they all were.”

He fancied he saw a flicker of pride pass over Boudinot’s face.

“Five years in the General’s service had to be good for something,” he joked.

He’d exchanged several letters with Washington over the past months, discussing the dangers of mutinous soldiers and the inefficient, blundering Congress that remained drowning in debt and mired in politics. Where he’d thought a good scare from an armed force bearing down on them might spur Congress to action, Washington had counseled caution. The army, Washington had written sternly, was a dangerous instrument to play with.2 Having just faced down two hundred armed men with mere words as his only defense, he was forced now to agree with his General’s wisdom.

“The soldiers have disbanded,” Boudinot announced as they made their way back into the Congressional chamber. “Let us all take a short recess, have some dinner, and reconvene at seven o’clock to discuss a resolution in response to these events.”

The huddled group at the back of the room scurried out without further need of encouragement.

Jemmy rose from his seat as well, but came over to Hamilton rather than heading immediately for the exit. “Those poor men ought to have been paid already,” Jemmy remarked. “I can’t fault them for their anger.” 

“I very much agree, though perhaps not with their manner of protesting the failure.”

Jemmy nodded sagely. “Unfortunately, we cannot pay what we do not have.”

“If Congress doesn’t have the power to levy taxes on the states, nothing will ever change. We’ll never raise enough to pay our soldiers on the pittance the states volunteer. The whole system will surely collapse into ruin.”

He didn’t used to be quite so cynical. Or, perhaps, he had been, but he’d always had Jack to temper that cynicism with his boundless optimism. He needed Jack, needed that steady assurance that they’re country would turn out all right in the end. The grief threatened again.

Jemmy hushed him. “You know I agree with you,” he whispered. “But we must be tactical in accomplishing our ends. Those in high positions at the state level have everything to lose, and they’ll not yield easily.”

Hamilton fought an eye roll as he nodded. “I don’t see them yielding at all, at least not any time soon. What’s the point in my continuing here?”

“You must,” Jemmy demanded, eyes widening. “The final treaty will be arriving any day now, surely, and we’ll need every friend to our country’s interest to see that it’s duly ratified.”

They’d been having the same argument for more than a month, and yet no peace treaty had materialized. Summer’s heat was already sweeping through the city, and with it, the specter of disease. He’d kept Eliza with him far longer than advisable, hoping to get the final vote behind him and return to Albany with her.

“I’m not leaving yet,” he reassured his friend. He smirked, and added, “You’re more effective than an army at imprisoning me in these walls.”

Jemmy laughed, then turned his face to cough into his handkerchief again. “Excuse me.”

He patted his friend’s back gently until the fit had passed. “Would you like to join me and Eliza for dinner?” he offered, once Jemmy had regained his breath. “I’m sure she’s prepared something.”

Jemmy closed his eyes for a long moment, and then refused. “I think I’ll nap for a bit before we reconvene.”

Hamilton walked him out anyway, his uniform and reputation bestowing some added security for the sickly man from the few armed soldiers still ambling restlessly through the streets. When Hamilton saw Jemmy safely to his carriage, he continued on towards the boarding house. He felt his anger mounting now that he had time for quiet reflection.

What had the country come to, when the central government could be so easily made vulnerable? Where had the state militia been to defend them? And why would no one so much as consider a plan to strengthen Congress’s power of taxation, so that this crisis never would have happened in the first place? He’d spent months drafting and refining such a plan, only for it to languish in his desk drawer, waiting for what Jemmy deemed the proper moment. To be made so fearful of men he’d once entrusted his life to on the battlefield was the worst blow of all.

He was done with government service. He had been for a while now. If that damn treaty would just arrive, he could go home and start his practice, as he should have a year ago. The British were set to evacuate New York very soon, and the established Tory lawyers would doubtless go with them. He couldn’t hope for a better opportunity to establish himself.

His spinning thoughts carried him into the boarding house, up to the second floor, and to the back of the shabby but cheerful corridor towards his rooms. He’d hardly opened the door all the way when a figure crashed into him. A surprised huff fell from his lips as arms wound around his torso in an uncomfortably tight embrace.

“Thank the Lord you’re all right. People were saying armed soldiers had encircled the State House and threatened to attack if they were not paid.”

“They did,” he confirmed. “But thankfully they were persuaded to return to their barracks before any mischief could occur.”

Eliza squeezed him even tighter.

He wheezed out a chuckle. “Honey, I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, loosening her arms and looking up at him. “I was just so scared.”

“I’m just fine,” he promised her. Something small brushed past his leg, and he glanced down just in time to see his son finish edging around him to escape out into the hall.

“Philip!” Eliza called, exasperation clear in her tone.

He charged after the toddling child and scooped him up.

“Hi, Papa,” Pip greeted happily.

“Hi,” he laughed. “Where were you off to?”

A mischievous grin split the little boy’s face, and he pointed towards the stairs.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said, tickling Pip’s side as he carried him back to their room. Pip curled into him, laughing. When Eliza had shut the door safely behind him, he released the boy to go back to the blocks piled messily in the middle of the floor next to some painted wood soldiers.

“Every time I open the door,” Eliza sighed. “Why did we teach him to walk again?”

“That was all you,” he teased.

She shook her head as he removed his hat and jacket and hung them both carefully on the rack near the door.

“Are you at least done for the day?”

“Unfortunately, no. We’re reconvening at seven,” he answered, expertly detaching his sword loop to hang that up as well.

“Is that safe?”

“I think so.” She gave him a severe look, which he met with a shrug. He couldn’t give her much more assurance than that without outright lying.

She sighed heavily again, but gestured for him to sit down at the table. “Are you hungry? I prepared a cold dinner, since I wasn’t sure when you’d be home. Salted pork, bread, cheese, and some berries.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed, sitting down while she busied herself fixing plates for them both. With her back turned to him, he tried to brace himself for a long overdue conversation. “Sweetheart?”

Her jaw tensed, and he knew she knew what he was about to say.

“You should start packing tonight. With luck we’ll be able to schedule you on the coach tomorrow, after church.”

“No,” she refused stubbornly, not looking at him.

“Eliza,” he sighed.

“You said you’d be coming back with us,” she insisted. “I don’t want to leave without you. I’m so sick of us being apart.”

“I know, I know.” She finally turned around to lay the plate of food on the table before him. He caught her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Betsey. The peace treaty is taking longer to arrive than expected. It’s getting too dangerous to delay your departure any further, though. Not only with…” his voice trailed off as he jerked his head to indicate the mess with the mutinous army, “but the summer sicknesses will be running rampant soon, too. You wouldn’t want to risk exposing Pip, would you?”

Her eyes flashed at the implication that she would ever risk their precious boy. He stayed firm, willing to use any tactic necessary to see her and his son were out of danger. “No,” she agreed at last. “But I don’t want to risk you, either. Can’t you just come with us?”

“Jemmy says my vote is necessary for ratification.” Jemmy’s name caused her jaw to tense again. He smiled sympathetically. “I won’t be long behind you, darling.”

She twisted her hand in his to entwine their fingers. “You better not be.”

“You have my word.”

Giving his hand a final squeeze, she sat down across from him to eat. “In all the excitement, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about the letter I received today,” she said, letting the previous matter rest for now.

“Good news?” he asked hopefully.

“Of a sort,” she answered coyly. Her lips quirked into a smirk when she saw his brow raise expectantly. “It involves our dear Peggy.”

He grinned, and immediately guessed, “She’s married.”

Eliza laughed and nodded.

“Against your father’s wishes?”

“He’d more or less relented, as she relates it. But I don’t think he was happy about it.”

He took a hardy bit of salted pork as he laughed.

“You Schuyler girls,” he teased. “So willful.”

“Me?” she gasped, playing the wounded innocent. “There was absolutely nothing improper about our marriage.”

“You can fool a great many people with that story, my dearest, but not me. How many times did you try to convince me to elope, even after your father gave his blessing?”

She laughed again.

“Well, I’m certainly on notice,” he granted. “If we ever have a daughter, I won’t expect to be consulted on her choice of husband.”

“It’s probably best to have that expectation up front,” she agreed with a wink.

“A daughter.” He sighed at the idea, even as it made him smile. His eye fell on Pip, who was gleefully demolishing a block tower with one of the wooden soldiers. “Heaven help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Quote/paraphrase from Washington’s address at Newburgh in March 1783  
> 2 Washington to Hamilton, 4 April 1783
> 
> A lot packed into this one :) So in the spring of 1783, Congress was watchfully waiting for the final peace treaty to arrive. They were also readying to disband the army, but unfortunately, they didn’t actually have any money to pay the army. The soldiers were understandably not thrilled with being sent home with IOUs. Washington was called upon to skillfully prevent a full mutiny by his officers at camp in Newburgh in March. Hamilton was actually pretty happy about the threatened mutinies at first, because he thought it might finally push through the policies he wanted to see enacted. Washington agreed with Hamilton’s policy goals, but quickly tempered his plans to use the army to forward them. Being held hostage in June probably drove that point home for him nicely. 
> 
> I used letters and Congressional resolutions to piece together what happened, but I did have to use my imagination to describe how the soldiers were sent back to their barracks. Hamilton wasn’t necessarily there, but, considering his military experience and his close association with Washington, I think it’s likely he played a role. He, Ellsworth, and Peters did form a committee to deal with the mutiny before the events of Saturday, June 21. 
> 
> Eliza may have already departed for Albany at this time. Philip Schuyler wrote to Hamilton in May, and specified that he wasn’t responding to Eliza because he assumed she had already left. However, Hamilton didn’t write her a letter until July 22, so I think she might have stayed a little longer than Schuyler was expecting. Partly, this was because Hamilton kept trying to leave himself. However, James Madison was more or less holding him hostage until the peace treaty arrived. As the summer went on, more delegates were leaving, until they ultimately had to put out a demand for people to return. 
> 
> Hamilton eventually escaped in late July or early August. He traveled with Mrs. Schuyler back to Albany (that’s a fanfiction in and of itself :D) but when they stopped in New York, he found out that the treaty had yet to arrive from England.


	5. Eliza, December 1784

**December 1784**

Turkey juices sizzled and splattered as Eliza squeezed the baster over the bird’s browning skin. She hissed and growled with frustration when some of the splatter hit her uncovered hand and the arm of her dress, leaving little grease dots on the expensive material. Shaking out her hand, she placed the baster down and used her apron to wipe the sweat from her brow. The kitchen was unmercifully hot and so heavy with the scent of roasting meat and spices that she was fast developing a headache.

A little mewling sound caught her ear. Her shoulders tensed as she peeked over the edge of the bassinet, nestled safely beside the long island in the middle of the kitchen currently covered with ingredients and half-finished baked goods. Angelica’s tiny fists stretched over her head, but her eyes remained closed. Eliza sighed with relief. She couldn’t deal with a fussy infant on top of everything else.

It was her own fault she was so pressed so for time, she reminded herself as she hunted around the crowded counter-tops for the rosewater to add to the cake batter. With the new baby to care for, she’d fallen behind on returning calls, and she’d spent far too long trying to remedy the lack paying visits this morning. Mrs. Burr had been especially grateful for the company, the poor lady wan and listless, lacking even the energy to read as she stretched out on a lounge chair. She didn’t regret her attempt to cheer her friend, but now she was left with hardly any time to finish preparing the grand dinner they were hosting in honor of Lafayette’s return to the city.

Failing to find the rosewater, she turned and reached up to open the cabinet where it was usually stored. Not seeing it at the front, she rose up on her tiptoes to try to see further back into the shadowy cavern. Footsteps echoed in the stairway behind her as she looked, and she craned her neck around to see her husband emerging into the kitchen.

“Here you are,” Alexander remarked, smiling weakly. He was still dressed immaculately in the tailored gray suit he’d donned for court. “I was looking all over the house.”

“Well, Sarah’s polishing the silver and airing the good table linen while she watches Pip, and I sent Polly out to purchase some fresh candlesticks for the table. That left me to see to the dinner,” she explained, turning back to the cabinet again. “Could you help me? I can’t find the rosewater. I think it’s back here somewhere.”

“Of course,” he agreed. She moved aside as he came up beside her and reached easily into the cabinet, pulling out the bottle and handing it down to her. How much easier life would be if she were only a few inches taller, she thought ruefully.

“Thank you.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Has Lafayette told you how many to expect for dinner tonight yet?”

“No, I haven’t heard from him today. I’m sure he’s caught up in some celebration or other.”

“He knows we can’t fit more than six, right?” she confirmed. As much as she loved the little townhouse they’d selected at the far end of Wall Street, their dining room and parlor didn’t allow for much in the way of guests. She hadn’t even bothered hiring a musician, given they had no space for dancing. After the grand parties and reception balls Lafayette had enjoyed over the past months, she feared he’d be sadly disappointed with the humble fare they had to offer.

“I told him,” Alexander promised.

She nodded, still feeling distracted. Finally noting how odd it was for her husband to be tarrying in the kitchen, she asked, “Did you need me for something?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I just thought I’d stop in for a few minutes when I finished in court. I feel like we never see each other anymore.”

That was very true. He was so pressed with business—managing his legal practice, working as a director for the newly formed Bank of New York, and acting as business manager for John Church’s American assets when he and her sister were abroad—that it wasn’t unusual for him to work into the wee hours of the morning and then rise before sun-up to start again. She was exhausted herself from caring for their two children and attempting to run their household on an extremely tight budget. Despite all the hours her husband was billing, his clients were often too poor to pay in a timely manner, which left Eliza struggling to pay the grocer. Even on their anniversary a few nights ago, when Eliza was sure they’d make time for each other, they’d ended up doing little more than sharing a quiet meal and falling into bed at an uncommonly early hour, both asleep almost as soon as their heads hit the pillows.

“I know,” she sighed, pecking him on the lips this time. “But I’m a little busy right now, darling.”

He smirked and held a hand to his chest. “Oh, am I interrupting you while you’re working? How terrible of me. Why, whatever does that feel like?”

He thought he was so cute, she thought as she glared. And he was, which was the problem. Eliza could never get properly annoyed at him, even when he deserved it. She gave him a warning tap on the chest before turning back to her cake batter. “Your legal work won’t suffer from a brief distraction. The same can’t be said for our dinner. I’d hate to serve our dear Marquis burnt turkey and uncooked baked goods tonight.”

He chuckled, and shoved aside some ingredients so he could heave himself up to sit on the counter. The bowl beside him held the gingerbread cookie mix she intended to roll out once she’d started the cake baking. Examining it, he stuck his finger into the bowl and brought a glob of dough to his lips. “Mm, actually, uncooked baked goods wouldn’t be so bad.”

“That has raw egg in it. You’re going to give yourself food poisoning,” she scolded lightly, measuring the rosewater into the mixing bowl and beginning to stir briskly.

He wrinkled his nose playfully and looked down at the infant asleep on his other side.

When he started to reach down, she said more forcefully, “Don’t you dare. I just got her to go to sleep.”

His shoulders slumped and he heaved a put upon sigh, but he left the baby to her nap.

Still mixing, she looked at him more carefully now and noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the lack of color in his face. Softening at his obvious exhaustion, she asked, “How did your case go this morning?”

“I won, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I told you about the judge appointing me to represent the young lady accused of grand larceny?”

Eliza nodded, recalling a late night conversation they’d had a few months ago. The poor creature was innocent, or so she claimed, but she hadn’t a scrap of evidence to present in her own defense. “That’s good, though, isn’t it? You thought she was innocent.”

“I did. I do,” he granted. He braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed at his eyes. “But I had nothing to counter the circumstantial evidence against her. So I…I argued women were weak and in need of man’s protection, and that so sweet and beautiful a young lady couldn’t possibly be guilty of grand larceny.”*

She raised a brow. “That worked?”

“Yes,” he practically whined. His face was still covered by his hands. “According to that revered group of gentlemen, being a beautiful girl is a valid defense to criminal activity. I can’t believe I actually put that forward as her defense.”

Really, she thought it reflected more poorly on the group of men so witless as to believe such an argument, than on her husband who’d put it forth out of desperation. He looked genuinely distressed, though, so she placed the bowl down and moved closer. “You did what was necessary to get justice for your client,” she assured him. 

“I’m never doing that again,” he vowed, expression serious as he let his hand fall down between his knees. “I won’t make an argument that will disgust me to see carry the day. I’ll withdraw from the case first.”

She reached out to loop her arms around his neck and said sincerely, “You’re an excellent attorney, and a good man.” She believed that with all her heart. He prided himself on his principles, and he’d spent most of the past year fighting to defend citizens who’d remained loyal to the crown during the war from the rather disturbing witch-hunts the New York Assembly had invited when they passed the Trespass Act. Reconciliation was required to heal from the long years of warfare, he kept insisting—they should be rebuilding their city, not dragging out the pain and misery of the war.

He smiled weakly again and leaned in to the embrace, his head resting on her shoulder and his hand stroking along her hips. His breathing evened as he rested against her, his weight growing heavy in her arms, as though he were falling asleep right there in the kitchen. She kissed his temple and rubbed his back tenderly, suggesting, “Why don’t you go lie down for a little while, sweetheart? You seem tired.”

He shook his head against her and pulled back with some reluctance. “I need to go back to my office. I’m in the middle of drafting a motion craving oyer for one of my contract cases, and I want to file it today so I have a chance of actually getting the contract before the Christmas holiday.” 

“Sometime I wonder if you just make up words when you’re talking to me about your work,” she commented with a teasing smile. When his brow furrowed, she repeated, “A motion craving oyer?”

He laughed and some of the fatigue lifted from his face. With a wink, he said, “Only sometimes. For the record, that one was real.”

When he slid off the counter, she gave him a lingering kiss. “Don’t be too long,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair lovingly. “Lafayette’s due in a few hours.”

“I’ll be back before he arrives,” he promised. Then, with mischievous smirk, he reached back and scooped another glob of gingerbread dough before retreating from the kitchen.

**

Alexander had finished his motion and sent one of his clerks to file it long before she’d finished in the kitchen. She found him wrestling with Pip in the parlor when she finally escaped upstairs, red faced from working so near the fire and with a pounding headache. Even so, the sight of her husband and son playing so joyfully brought a smile to her lips.

“I got you, Papa!” Pip was declaring with excitement when she paused in the entry to the parlor, Angelica resting heavily in her arms. The wooden toy rifle her father had given him last time he’d visited was lying on the floor nearby, along with an array of little soldiers; she suspected they’d been pretending some sort of battle before it degenerated into rolling about on the floor.

“You boys are going to need to change if you keep rolling around like that,” she observed, with no real heat.

“I’m planning to anyways,” Alexander replied, and, winking at her again, added, “And I’m losing too soundly for Pip to get dirty.”

“I’m going up to get ready now,” she told him. The apron had done little to protect her dress from the turkey splatter, flour, and dough, and she’d sweat off her makeup hours ago. “Would you watch Angelica while I change?”

Pip bounced up before Alexander could move and ran over, staring up at the baby. 

She smiled down at her sweet boy. She’d worried he’d feel displaced by another baby, and he had grown a little clingy since the baby arrived, especially with his father. She suspected that may have more to do with Alexander’s long hours than with Angelica, however. So far, he’d seemed entirely enthralled with his little sister.

“You want to hold her, Pip?” Alexander asked as he pushed himself up.

Pip’s head bobbed happily. “I can do it.”

Alexander scooped him up and plopped him on the sofa. Her husband’s face turned impossibly tender as he approached and smiled down at their little girl, awake now and rolling her head on Eliza’s arm to look around. She passed the baby over carefully, and waited while Alexander situated Pip on the sofa so he could hold his sister.

“Here you are,” he said softly, adjusting Pip’s arms as he knelt down in front of him by the sofa. He pulled a pillow over so Pip could rest his arm while he supported the baby’s weight. “Support her head. That’s my boy.”

“Hi baby,” Pip whispered. He bent his head down to press a sloppy kiss to her forehead. Angelica’s big, curious eyes widened in surprise at the sensation. “I love you.”

Alexander looked back at her with an utterly lovesick expression. She was sure her expression mirrored his exactly, her frustration and cares from earlier melting away as she watched her darling little babes. With great effort, she pulled herself away to go ready for the evening.

They both just had time to change when a knock came on the front door. Eliza was frantically tossing Pip’s toy soldiers and spinning tops into a bin while one of the maids went to open the door. Alexander looked blithely unconcerned with all the loose toys.

“He knows we have babies,” he shrugged, pushing up from the sofa to go greet his friend. She fought down the urge to growl at him in frustration, trying to remind herself he made up for his abysmal housekeeping abilities in other ways. 

“My dearest Marquis,” she heard Alexander say when he stepped out into the foyer. The sound of crushed breath and back slapping told her the two men were embracing. 

“Hamilton,” Lafayette replied fondly. “How I’ve missed you, _mon frère_. The General and I spoke of you often during my stay at Mount Vernon.”

Eliza hung back, finishing up in the parlor and letting the two old friends reunite uninterrupted. When the last of the little wooden soldiers was put away, she rose, and was surprised to find the Marquis alone in the foyer. Lafayette scooped her into a tight embrace on sight, before she could so much as utter a greeting.

“And my dear Mrs. Hamilton. It has been far too long,” he said softly.

“It has,” she agreed, a little breathless as she patted his back fondly. Indeed, almost four years had passed since she’d last seen the Marquis. While Alexander had at least seen Lafayette at a dinner party while he’d been in New York that September, she’d still been recovering from giving birth at the time.

“Is the rest of your party following separately, Fayette?” Alexander asked when Lafayette had loosened his hold on her.

“ _Non_ ,” he replied. “I came alone. It is good to be away from all the fuss and fanfare for an evening.”

Alexander smirked. “You love fuss and fanfare.”

Lafayette grinned. “ _Oui_ , I do. But I love you more, and I did not wish to share you with company tonight.”

Alexander’s smirk melted into a more genuine smile. “Well, I’m honored to have you all to myself. It’s been an age since we’ve enjoyed a quiet dinner together.”

“I hope you did not go to too much trouble, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lafayette added, looking at her. “I should have told you I’d not be accompanied by guests, and that a simple family meal would suffice.”

Perhaps she wouldn’t have made quite so much food, but she found it hard to be cross when he looked so earnest and eager to spend time with them alone. “Please, don’t think of it, my dear Marquis. With you here with us to enjoy our meal, my efforts were hardly in vain. And it’s for the best we’ll not have too many mouths to feed, with the amount of cookie dough my darling husband consumed this afternoon.”

Alexander gasped in mock-offense as Lafayette burst out laughing. “I had two bites,” he defended. “It wouldn’t have even made a cookie.”

“Uh huh,” she agreed, laughing herself when he stuck his tongue out at her.  

“Shall I give you a tour of the house?” Alexander offered when Lafayette had stopped laughing at his expense. He waved his arm towards the parlor in invitation. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

Something about that statement made Lafayette’s eyes brighten, she noticed, as he slung his arm around her husband’s shoulder and bid him to lead the way.

**

Eliza sang softly as she patted Angelica’s back in the dark, trying to stifle a yawn. Though she hadn’t looked at the clock when she got up to feed the baby, she knew she’d knew she’d been asleep for a while. It must have been close to midnight. Given how late it was, she’d been surprised not to find her husband asleep beside her.

The evening had been a joyous occasion, full of laughter and old memories. Lafayette spent almost an hour before dinner playing with Philip and holding Angelica, until the children had to be taken upstairs for bed. As he’d cooed at the baby, he’d confessed to her how dearly he missed his own little ones.  Then, after they’d eaten dinner and enjoyed some of the cake she’d spent so long making, Alexander had taken Lafayette into his office for a brandy and some private conversation. Which was not at all unusual, although the conversation didn’t usually last so late into the night.

When the baby drifted back to sleep, and Eliza gratefully set her into her cradle and made her way into the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen. She didn’t hear anything, but then, she hadn’t expected to. They’d been speaking in hushed tones since they’d disappeared into Alexander’s office. Not that she minded. Who knew when the two would get a chance to speak in person again? And at least Alexander could sleep in a bit tomorrow, it being Saturday.

Just as she was beginning to drift off, the door to the master bedroom cracked open, and Alexander slipped inside. He was clearly trying to sneak in so as not to wake her, but his attempt failed miserably, when he stumbled straight into her vanity on his way to the dressing room. “Shh,” he whispered, as though trying to hush the toppling objects.

“Are you all right, honey?” she asked, pushing herself up in the bed.

“You’re still up,” he observed, without answering her question.

“I just fed Angelica.” Reaching over to the nightstand, she lit a candle so he wouldn’t need to undress in the dark. “Did Lafayette leave?”

“Mm, just now,” he replied, blinking in the light of the candle.

His voice had a slightly slurred quality to it, and she felt a smile curling on her lips as she started to put the pieces together. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m not, I’m…” He paused, considering, then admitted, “Maybe a little bit.”

"Aww," she cooed as she slid out of bed and made her way towards him. Unlike many women of her acquaintance, she never worried about Alexander overindulging in spirits. He rarely drank to excess, and on the very few occasions she’d witnessed him actually drunk, he’d gone from silly to sleepy in fairly quick succession, as far from violent or angry as it was possible to be.

The sweet, strong scent of brandy was heavy in his breath as she got closer. He was still leaning on her vanity, apparently in need of a steadying surface. She placed her hands on his chest gently and asked, “Do you want some help getting undressed?” 

He swallowed and nodded.

Peering up at him in the dim light, she noticed with a pang that his eyes were a little red and slightly damp. It could have been just from the alcohol, but when she reached up to brush her thumb over his cheek, her suspicion was confirmed. “Were you crying, sweetheart?”

“We were…talking,” he answered with a delicate sniffle.

“About Laurens?” she guessed immediately, surprised the thought hadn’t occurred to her sooner. Neither man had spoken about their fallen friend during dinner, each memory they shared carefully selected to keep his name from coming up in the conversation, she realized. Of course they’d waited until they were alone to speak of him. She knew he still thought of his friend often, even when he didn’t speak his name aloud. Who better to understand her husband’s profound and lingering grief than Lafayette?

He made a sound deep in his throat, nearly a whimper, and his face seemed to crumple in the candlelight.

“It’s all right, honey,” she assured him quickly, stretching up to give him a comforting kiss. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. He curled forward into her arms, going almost limp. She grunted as she struggled to keep him up.

“Sweetheart, you need to hold yourself up a little longer, all right? Come on, let’s get you changed and into bed,” she urged. When he had his feet under him again, she had him lean against the vanity and hurried into the dressing room to pull out his nightshirt. With her help, he shed the expensive coat, waistcoat and breeches, and finally pulled his shirt over head to be replaced with his looser nightwear.

She helped him over to the bed, and knelt down as he sat heavily, so she could remove his stockings for him.

“We didn’t…we didn’t just talk about Jack,” he told her softly when she looked back up at him.

She smiled and arranged the blankets over him while he swung his legs up onto the bed and flopped back against the pillows. “No?”

He shook his head, his eyes steady on her as she crawled over to the other side of the bed. He didn’t elaborate further. She pulled the blankets up around herself and scooted closer to him.

“Do you want to tell me what else you talked about?” she prompted.

He smiled, and, apropos of nothing, remarked, “You’re pretty.”

“Thank you,” she chuckled. Giving him a kiss on the forehead, she leaned over to blow out the candle, leaving the room dark but for the firelight glowing outside the bed curtains.

“Home,” he muttered as she snuggled down into her pillows.

“Hm?” she hummed.

“We talked about home.”

It was a simple, expected topic, but he said it as if he were making a grand confession. And the way he clutched at her as he spoke the last word, the reverence in his voice as he said it…her memory went back to Lafayette, the way his eyes had brightened when Alexander claimed their little townhouse as his home. There was something there, something significant.

She caressed his cheek and kissed him, slow and deep, heedless of the alcohol on his breath. His lips were pliant against hers, responsive but too sleepy to be insistent. He tugged her closer, right up against him, squeezing her in a way that reminded her of Pip and the stuffed cloth rabbit Peggy had made for him. She squeezed him back, wanting to him to feel safe and secure here in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This was an actual case Hamilton had to argue, according to James A. Hamilton. He was appointed to represent a young woman accused of larceny, and she swore her innocence but couldn't produce any witnesses or evidence. Knowing he had a pretty young woman as his client and a jury of middle aged white men, he basically just played to their sexism, then was completely horrified when it worked. He swore he'd never put forth a defense he didn't believe in after that case. 
> 
> Lafayette did a tour of America in the latter part of 1784. He saw Hamilton very briefly in the fall, but would likely have spent more time with him when he returned to New York in December. It was the last time they saw each other in person while Hamilton was alive. I also think it was an important part of Hamilton finding closure after losing Laurens. 
> 
> And we finally get some cute Pip and Angelica interaction, the best part to write! :)


	6. Hamilton, August 1786

**August 1786**

Even with the windows thrown wide to catch the breeze off the Hudson, Jay’s spacious office felt unbearably warm. Hamilton wiped at his forehead with his already damp handkerchief and adjusted again in his chair, attempting to alleviate the dull throb in his back. Lively music emanated from the front parlor of the Jay’s country estate, mixing with the cricket song from the gardens, both sounds loud in the otherwise quiet office. John Jay peered at the letter from Henry Laurens, holding it close to the lamplight, before sighing and passing the paper to his right, where Robert Troup began to study the document.

“A tissue of lies, eh?”1 Troup read with a sardonic laugh. Egbert Benson leaned over his shoulder to read the letter as well. The men were not only fellow members of the New York Manumission Society, but also three of the finest legal minds in the country.

“Any suggestions?” Hamilton queried, hopeful, but not optimistic.

“He claims the poor fellow remains his property,” Jay sighed. “It’s much harder to argue attempted kidnapping when papers can be produced showing ownership. His attorney is Jacob Read?”

Hamilton gave a resigned nod. “He’s coming to collect Frederic on Laurens’ behalf.”

“There’s nothing from Colonel Laurens attesting to this grant of freedom?” Benson queried, adjusting his glasses as he looked up from the letter.

“Surely Jack must have given him something?” Troup pressed as he placed the letter on the side table and leaned forward, beseeching.

“If he did, Frederic no longer has it,” Hamilton answered with a half shrug.

“The lack of documentation certainly gives credence to Mr. Laurens’ claim,” Jay pointed out.

“I believe Frederic,” Hamilton retorted firmly. “And his claim makes perfect sense. Jack wanted to grant all the men who fought for the Patriots their freedom after the war. If he believed it was in his power to grant it to one of his men, he would absolutely have done so.”

Benson had crossed the room, and he poured himself a brandy as he stated, “Be that as it may, his word and your belief won’t be enough to overcome Mr. Laurens’ proof of ownership in court.” He held up the brandy bottle to Hamilton when he’d finished pouring, silently asking whether Hamilton would like some as well.

“No, thank you,” Hamilton refused. His kidneys ached terribly, and alcohol only seemed to make things worse when he was in this state.2 When Troup frowned at him, he tried to force a reassuring smile.

“I agree with Benson,” Jay said, sitting back and swirling his own glass of brandy slowly. “There’s nothing to be done for him.”

“Sorry, Ham.” Troup patted his knee companionably. “I know how much this meant to you.”

He’d known there was nothing to be done after reading the first few lines of Henry Laurens’ letter, but hearing it confirmed still carried the sting of failure. Jack had freed this man—the just act had been one of his dearest friend’s last in this world, and Hamilton was powerless to see it through for him. Now Frederic would be taken back to South Carolina to labor on the sprawling Laurens’ estate, and no amount of Laurens’ rosy and paternalistic rhetoric could make Hamilton believe that was a positive outcome. To take a man once free and return him to a state of enslavement seemed to him an affront to the laws of man and God alike.

“Oh, I wanted to show you,” Jay muttered, leaning far over the chair to reach the top drawer of his desk. “This just arrived from General Washington.”

They had moved easily on to the new topic, as though they hadn’t just condemned a man to a terrible fate. Hamilton tried not to imagine Frederic’s face when he visited him at the jail on his way through the city with the news that he’d be returning to his master. The man’s earnest, pleading expression floated across his mind’s eye nonetheless.

Jay had pulled a thick stack of pages from his desk. Hamilton winced in pain as he reached to take the letter. Washington’s careful, looping handwriting was immediately recognizable. “Your sentiments, that our affairs are drawing rapidly to a crisis, accord with my own,” Washington began.3

“You’ll want to read this, too, Benson,” Jay said as Hamilton read. “General Washington is firmly behind an effort to overhaul our current system. Knowing you have his support, I have great hope for the upcoming convention in Annapolis.”

As Secretary of Foreign Affairs, Jay was intimately familiar with the shortfalls of the current Articles of Confederation that governed their young nation. When Hamilton had been appointed to attend the meeting, Jay had immediately taken him into his confidence regarding improvements he wanted to see. Hamilton had no doubt that was the reason he and Eliza had been extended the invitation to the Jay’s country retreat along with Benson.

“Isn’t the meeting just to work out new interstate trade regulations?” Troup asked curiously.

“That’s what Clinton thinks,” Jay granted. “With any luck, he’ll continue to believe so.” 

“He and every other state official,” Hamilton added distractedly as his eyes darted around the page. “Those of us who understand the urgent need for a better system are few and far between.” It was entirely possible that he, Benson, and Jemmy would be the only ones interested in making any changes at all, assuming anyone else even bothered to attend.

A soft knock preceded the office door cracking open, and Sarah Jay’s open, heart-shaped face peeked in at them. “Are you gentleman going to join us ladies in the parlor any time soon?”

“We’ll be right there, dearest,” Jay assured her, his expression tender at the sight of his wife. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

They all rose, but while Jay, Benson, and Troup started out of the room, Hamilton paused, pressing his hand to his back. The dull ache had suddenly turned to a sharp pain that was radiating from his sides down across his abdomen. He hissed and held his other hand to his stomach, trying to breathe through the pain.

“Ham?” Troup had turned back when he didn’t move. “Are you all right?”

“Mm,” he hummed.

“Do you want me to get Eliza?”

He huffed a wry chuckle. Eliza was hardly speaking to him at the moment. “I’ll be fine. I just need a moment.”

Troup leaned against the wall to wait for him. “Your kidneys?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t need to say more. The attacks were an unfortunately common occurrence, and Troup had been by his side during one of his worst ones while they were at King’s. He’d never forget how caring and kind his friend had been while he’d writhed and heaved on their shared bed.

After a few deep breaths, the pain eased enough for him to move again. He made his way from the office, Troup close at his side.

“Hammy!” Someone crashed into him as they entered the parlor. He hissed again as arms clasped around his torso.

Easing the figure away, he forced a smile, and, with only partially false enthusiasm, greeted, “Kitty! I didn’t know you were coming.”

“When Sarah said you and Eliza were staying here with your children, I had to come visit.”

“Is your husband here as well?”

She laughed. He smelled wine heavy on her breath even over her cloying perfume. “No. You wouldn’t want him to be, trust me—he’s dreadfully dull.” Her cheery yellow dress was cut low across her chest, and she was angling in a manner that seemed designed to give him a full view of her bosom. His gaze lingered a moment longer than he’d like to admit. She still had a beautiful figure.

Coming to his senses, he pushed her farther away gently. “I’m…I’m sorry to hear he won’t be joining us,” he managed, the most diplomatic response he could think of on the spot.

Eliza was seated at the far end of the parlor on the sofa beside Jennet Troup, he noticed. The two women appeared engrossed in conversation. He tried to catch his wife’s eye. Her gaze flitted in his direction, enough that he knew she’d seen him looking at her, but she pointedly kept her face turned towards Jennet.

Still angry with him, then.

“Now that we’ve finally reclaimed our gentleman, perhaps a dance?” Sarah suggested.

“Oh, yes! We should dance, Hammy. For old time’s sake.” Kitty pulled on his arm, attempting to tug him towards the center of the room.

What he needed was to sit, or, better yet, lie down. Either way, dancing certainly was not in his plans for the night. In fact, the slicing pain was beginning to make him feel slightly sick to his stomach. “I’m sorry, would you excuse me? I need to step outside.”

“Oh.” Kitty looked deeply disappointed, but she released him.  

He cut across the room towards the open patio doors, and exited into the garden, where torches lit a path to the nearby privy. Relieving his bladder always became a torturous task when his ailment flared up, but he managed. Instead of going straight back to the party, though, he decided to sit down on one of the garden benches and let the fresh, cool night air help to settle his stomach.

Footsteps crunched along the gravel path, forking away from the direction of the necessary house. He expected to Troup coming to check on him, or perhaps Kitty anxious to reclaim his attention. To his surprise, it was Eliza making her way towards him. The light from the torches along the path shimmered on the rose pink silk of her gown, giving it an almost golden hue.

She lowered herself onto the bench beside him and gave him a considering look. “You know, it’s difficult to stay cross with you when you look so sullen.”

A tiny smile pulled at his lips. “It’s difficult not to look sullen when you’re so cross with me.”

“I hate fighting with you,” she confessed.

“I don’t much care for it either.”

“I wish you wouldn’t give me so much cause to be angry, then,” she retorted.

He wasn’t entirely certain what it was he had done to make her so upset with him in the first place, but he knew better than to inquire about the cause when she seemed to be softening towards him. Whatever it was he had done, there was usually only one right answer, anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you are.” She knew him far too well, it seemed. Her hand rested gently upon his left knee, though, as if to indicate a temporary truce. “Why are you sitting out here by yourself? It’s not only because of our fight.”

“Mm, no,” he agreed. “I’m just not feeling very well tonight.”

Her thumb stroked soothingly along his thigh. “What’s wrong? Your kidneys?”

He nodded. “I’m having a bit of an attack. And I feel a little sick to my stomach. The fresh air helps.”

“Should I ask Mr. Jay to send for a doctor?”

“It will pass on its own. It always does.”

“Perhaps a doctor could do something to ease your discomfort until it does pass.” When he refused again, she huffed.  “You’re so stubborn.”

“You knew that when you married me,” he teased lightly.

She favored him with a small smile. “I suppose I did.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief to dab at his sweaty brow again. As he did, Eliza’s right hand clasped his left, her fingers sliding naturally into the spaces between his own. Sliding a little closer, she leaned against him, apparently content to sit beside him for as long as he needed to take the air. He closed his eyes and focused on taking deep breaths.

The pain seemed to be worsening rather than improving. He blew out a controlled breath through his pursed lips during a particularly bad spasm, and his hand clutched at Eliza’s tightly. Her other hand closed around his comfortingly.

“Mrs. Jay gave Pip and Angelica some paints to play with today,” Eliza told him, her voice calm and casual as she sought to distract him. “Apparently, though, Pip got bored with the painting on the paper. I looked away for half a second, and poor little Alex had blue cheeks and a red nose. Thankfully it washed off in the bath. At least the little monster didn’t try to repaint the nursery walls.”

He laughed weakly at the story, but the sound turned to a soft whimper in the back of his throat. His heart was beating a loud, pounding tattoo in his chest. The whole lower half of his torso was tender and beset with terrible, shooting pains. 

Eliza sighed, and reached her left hand up to touch his cheek. “God, sweetheart, you’re shaking.”

 “Hurts,” he managed to gasp out between breaths.

“I’m going to ask Troup to come help you upstairs so you can lie down. Will you be all right for a minute?”

He nodded stiffly and forced his hand to release the tight grip he had on hers.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised. Her hand brushed over his back before she hurried back down the garden path towards the house. Good to her word, she returned within a minute with Troup close on her heels.

“Oh, Hammy,” Troup sighed heavily.

His friend reached down to wrap Hamilton’s arm around his shoulders, but Hamilton shook his head. “Not yet,” he requested. He couldn’t bear to stand in the midst of a spasm. “Another minute, please.”

“Take your time,” Troup granted. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Another few rounds of deep breaths through his nose, and the pain finally ebbed enough for him to stand. “All right. I think I can move now.”

Troup pulled Hamilton’s arm across his shoulders with his hand clutching at the material beneath Hamilton’s opposite armpit. Balancing carefully, they rose and began an awkward shuffle towards the house. Sarah was waiting anxiously just inside the patio doors as they made their way inside.

“I’m so sorry to hear you’re feeling unwell, Mr. Hamilton,” she said as they stumbled in, Troup setting the course for the stairs. “Mrs. Hamilton mentioned your stomach was troubling you. I do hope it wasn’t something you ate.”

He felt Eliza’s hand soothe across his lower back as she answered for him. “I’m quite sure your excellent dinner was not the problem, Mrs. Jay. My husband occasionally suffers from an inflammation of the kidneys, often in the late summer or the early autumn.”

“It’s plagued him since his childhood,” Troup added.

“He just needs rest,” Eliza assured their hostess.

 Sarah looked much more at ease, but her expression remained compassionate. “I’ll send a servant up with some peppermint water and some hot towels. Is there anything else you need? You’re sure we shouldn’t call for a doctor?”

“I’ll be perfectly well again presently,” he interjected. He heard Eliza huff softly behind him again, but she didn’t contradict him. With Troup’s help, he managed to struggle upstairs into the guest room they were occupying.

“In you go, Hammy,” Troup encouraged, lowering him down onto the mattress and tugging the blanket over him.

He groaned as he rolled onto his back, breathing hard. His heart was still hammering in his chest. Eliza sat carefully beside him and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to mop his brow again.

“Thank you, Robert,” she said, sending his friend a sincere smile.

“Sorry,” he added to Troup.

“Oh, please. We’ve seen each other in worse states than this over the years,” Troup brushed away his apology.  “Let me know if you need anything else, Mrs. H.”

“I will,” Eliza promised, subtle amusement on her face at the nickname Troup favored for her.

Troup turned to the side in the doorway to allow in one of the Jay’s servants, who carried a tray of supplies. The girl left the items on the nightstand and retreated quickly herself, closing the door behind her with a gentle tap. Eliza leaned over to inspect the items, her face glowing in the lamplight.

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?” she asked him.

His stomach still felt uneasy, but it didn’t feel urgent. “I don’t think so.”

“Can you sit up to sip the peppermint water? That should ease your nausea at least.”

“If you help me,” he answered. She leaned back towards him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder to help leverage himself up against the pillows. As she began to prepare the drink for him, she noted, “We’ll have to take off your waistcoat and tails when you’re feeling a little more recovered.”

He nodded and accepted the cup from her. The peppermint water did help alleviate the queasiness. As the pain from the spasms started to ease as well, Eliza helped him undress and flip over onto his stomach, where she placed a hot towel across his back and began to slowly massage his tense shoulders.

“Feeling better?” she whispered when his eyelids began to droop drowsily.

“Mm,” he hummed agreeably.

Her thumbs traced slow circles on his shoulder blades as she heaved a sigh. “This is what I’m worried about, you know.”

He blinked his eyes open and craned his neck to look up at her. “What?”

“This.” She waved her hand over his torso. “This is what happens when you spread yourself too thin.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She raised a brow skeptically. “Oh, will you?”

“This isn’t from stress,” he tried to argue. “It’s a very old complaint. I’ve been suffering with it since childhood. It’s nothing to do with my work.”

“I was there when you came home from the war. I saw how worn you were after years of hard service to the country. I never wish to see you so ill again.”

He shook his head to try to focus. Her icy attitude towards him had coincided with him mentioning the reason for his upcoming trip to Annapolis, but he’d had no idea why exactly it had upset her so. “Is that why you’re angry with me? Because I’m going to a meeting for the government?”

“I don’t even expect you to ask me, you know, but you could have at least told me what you were doing. You found out you’d been appointed in May, for heaven’s sake.”

 “I didn’t want to bother you about it, with the new baby and—”

“I don’t care how you rationalized it, Alexander!” She hadn’t raised her voice exactly, but there was distinct heat in her tone now. “You hid it from me for months. You must have known it would upset me, otherwise you would have said something when word first arrived.”

He tried to ignore the truth of her words, and instead squinted up at her in aggrieved disbelief. “I don’t understand what’s upsetting you. It’s a single meeting. I’ve been gone far longer for court and on business for Church.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she hissed. “This isn’t one meeting. You, and Mr. Jay—and Mr. Madison, I’d wager—you’ve all been plotting together. You’re going to turn that commerce meeting into a full scale review of our governing document.”

Her political savvy astounded him sometimes. He flashed her a smile, hoping to charm her out of her temper. “It’s a good thing I have you and your political instincts on my side, my angel. If you worked for Governor Clinton, I’d be ruined.”

“It’s not political instincts that I have. I just know you,” she contradicted. “You’ve been desperate to revise the Articles of Confederation ever since your miserable experience in Congress. And this will be your chance.”

He felt transparent and vulnerable as he grappled with just how easily his wife had seen through him. Another searing pain shot across his side as he contemplated the development. Her mood towards him seemed to soften when she saw him wince.

Leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to his temple and whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone into all that when you’re not feeling well. I just…I just want you to be honest with me, Alexander. You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide to do. But I don’t like you hiding things from me.”

She was right, of course. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy with his decision to delve back into government service, and he’d deliberately avoided telling her about the appointment until the last possible moment. He rolled onto his side a little so he could see her more easily.

“You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”  

She brushed her knuckles over his cheek fondly. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” he told her sincerely.

Tenderness stole over her expression as she kissed him again. “Get some rest, my love. You’ll need all your strength if you’re going to overthrow the government next week.”

He laughed at the bare truth of the statement.

She ruffled his hair and pushed softly at his shoulder to encourage him back into the more comfortable position on his belly. As he adjusted, she replaced the hot towel on his back and resumed her massage. In her loving hands, he drifted easily into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. See Henry Laurens to Alexander Hamilton, 19 April 1785 and Henry Laurens to Jacob Read, 16 July 1785—I aged this case up a year just to keep the story moving, but otherwise the details are all true. Hamilton was very active in the New York Manumission Society in the mid-1780s, along with the three other men in the room with him. The society focused on agitating for gradual abolition and the end of the slave trade (he signed a petition in March 1786 for that very purpose), and on providing legal aid to free men who were being kidnapped from the city and sold into slavery down south. Hamilton personally took the case of a man named Frederic, who claimed John Laurens had freed him in return for his service to the army during the revolution. Unfortunately, Hamilton could do little to assist him, because Henry Laurens insisted that Frederic remained his property. 
> 
> 2\. See Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, 8 September 1786—Hamilton was suffering from some kind of illness on his trip to Annapolis, and given the time of year, it was likely an attack of his persistent kidney ailment that plagued him throughout his life. 
> 
> 3\. George Washington to John Jay, 15 August 1786. 
> 
> Also, a quick note about the Annapolis Convention, in case you didn’t get this in history class: so, it was supposed to be a meeting about interstate trade and commerce. Instead, the convention produced a document (drafted by our very own Alexander Hamilton) that called for another meeting to review and revise the Articles of Confederation (the forerunner to the Constitution), to begin in the next year. The meeting that followed in 1787 is now known as the Constitutional Convention.


	7. Eliza, February 1787

**February 1787**

Steam wafted from the silver coffee pot as Eliza finished pouring the freshly brewed beverage. She’d never much cared for coffee, especially not the way Alexander drank it—piping hot and strong, with not a cube of sugar or drop of milk to soften the taste—but she did enjoy the smell in the mornings. When she placed the top on the pot, the scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon quickly replaced the coffee.

“I can see to the rest, ma’am, if you’d like to go up now,” Judy offered with a sunny smile as she flipped a strip of bacon over.

Alexander had hired the young woman a few weeks ago after hearing her plead for assistance at his last meeting of the Manumission Society. Her former master had freed her upon his death, but his son, a Major Turner, was doing his utmost to ignore that particular provision of the will; the ensuing controversy had made it nigh impossible for the poor girl to find honest work. Although it strained their budget to add another member to their household staff, Eliza was more than happy to have her help with running the house and managing three willful children.

“Thank you, Judy,” she replied amiably. “I suppose I should set Philip to his reading, and I’m sure Mr. Hamilton will be wanting his coffee.”

She placed the coffee pot and the basket of bread on a tray and mounted the stairs. As she came to the top, she heard Pip chattering on about something along with the distinct sound of a newspaper page being flipped. Angelica’s tinkling giggle filled the space between Pip’s enthusiastic conversation.

When she entered the room, Pip’s chatter had given way to a series of grunts, and he was squatting on the floor with his arms hanging loose between his legs. “Philip, what on earth are you doing?” she asked as she set the tray on the table.

Pip answered with a series of short ‘oo’ sounds as he leaned his weight on his knuckles and scooted forward. “Monkey,” Angelica giggled, turned sideways in her chair and clapping her little hands together with delight.  Alexander had peeked over his paper to watch Pip as well, his eyes alight with amusement.

“So, will you, Papa? Please?” Pip asked, pushing himself upright again.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. If you’re good, and do just as Mama says today,” Alexander replied, with a fond sort of exasperation in his tone. Pip must have been pestering him about something while she was downstairs seeing to breakfast.

“What is it you’re getting if you’re good today?” Eliza asked.

“I get to see the monkeys,” Pip said excitedly.

Ah. She ought to have guessed. One of their neighbors, further up Wall Street, had acquired the exotic pets recently. Pip had spotted them swinging in a tree last Sunday, when the family had taken a walk  after dinner. Alexander had lifted Pip to sit on his shoulders so he could watch the creatures play, and their son had been obsessed ever since.

“Well, the first step in showing me what a good boy you are is to get to your reading,” Eliza told him, nodding towards the Bible on the sideboard.

Pip’s shoulders slumped dramatically, but he obeyed, trudging towards the sideboard, retrieving the Bible, and shuffling to her side to begin his morning reading. Eliza poured out Alexander’s coffee as Pip began his halting oration. Alexander thanked her softly when she pushed the cup forward towards him, and she began slicing and buttering the bread for Angelica and Alex. When Judy came up to serve the tea and the plates of Johnnycakes and bacon, Eliza allowed Pip to resume his seat at the table for his breakfast.

Little Alex had squeezed the pieces of bread she’d sat on his highchair into balls, and he began to throw them onto the ground. Pip and Angelica were both snickering, which made the baby grin. “Oh, Alex,” Eliza sighed, taking the bread away and replacing it with a few pieces of Johnnycake. That, at least,  the child began to gum with interest.

Alexander was looking pensively down at his plate when she looked over at him again. The Johnnycakes and bacon were untouched, and his son’s antics didn’t seem to have caught his attention. He was worrying about the speech he was to deliver in the Assembly this afternoon, she intuited.

“Was there anything of interest in the paper this morning, sweetheart?” she asked, hoping to distract him.

“Hm?” He looked up, frowning. “Oh, just more news about the farmers rebellion in Massachusetts.”

“The state militia still hasn’t put it down?” Eliza asked. The farmers, led by Daniel Shays, had been actively and violently protesting the high taxes laid upon them by Massachusetts since the autumn. The grievance had a painfully familiar ring to it. 

“The General Court has declared Massachusetts officially in a state of rebellion, and General Lincoln defeated Shays’ retreating forces somewhere outside Petersham,” he reported.  

Eliza’s eyes widened at Lincoln’s name—the great General had been the one to accept the surrender of Cornwallis’s second at Yorktown. His association with quashing a rebellion jarred her. “General Lincoln is involved now?”

Hamilton shrugged.

He was far from indifferent to the situation, Eliza knew; he was just exhausted from having been warning people about the possibility of such a problem for years. Back when he’d first been sent to Congress, he’d campaigned for the central government to have a meaningful taxation power, not only so that it might make a start on its own debt, but also to help equalize the debts owed by the individual states. Instead, Congress continued without such powers, and printed worthless paper money to pay its obligations to soldiers and citizens. Massachusetts had raised the tax burden on its poorest citizens to as much as forty percent to try to retire her own debt, and also insisted on being repaid in specie, rather than the paper money. The result was a full-fledged rebellion.

Pip made his monkey sound again as Eliza came to grips with this latest news, and Angelica followed along. Alex made a grunting sound and pounded his little fists against the wooden tray of his highchair, determined to join in the fun. Her husband brought his hand to his mouth, obviously attempting to cover his amusement.

“All right, children,” she cut in to the ruckus firmly. “If we’re done eating, it’s time to wash up and begin our lessons.”

Pip shoved half a bread roll in his mouth. “I’m still eating,” he claimed, voice muffled by the food.

“Then eat,” she directed. “And we don’t speak with our mouths full, do we, Philip?”

“No, Mama,” he agreed, mouth still full of bread.

Eliza closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I think I’ll head out now,” Alexander announced, taking a last gulp from his coffee cup. “I have a meeting with a client at my office this morning before I go over to the Assembly session.”

His plate had barely been touched, Eliza observed again.

He rose from the table and gave each of the children a tender kiss on the top of the head. He paused when he came to Alex, and rubbed his thumb over the baby’s chubby cheek tenderly to wipe away a spot of sticky jam. “I love you, my little lambs. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, Papa,” Pip waved, a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth this time.

Eliza followed him out into the entryway.

“Are you all right, sweetheart? You hardly ate anything.”

An embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine. Just…a little nervous. You know how my stomach gets.”

She pulled him into a gentle embrace. “Your speech is wonderful.”

“Thank you.” His arms closed around her in return. “And thank you for staying up with me last night to finish it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Of course,” she said. She bit her lip, considering her next question. “Is the public permitted to sit in the gallery today?”

He tensed in her arms. “I…I think so, yes. Why?”

“I thought I’d leave Judy and Polly with the children this afternoon so I could come watch.”

A heavy sigh fell from his lips. “I’m going to lose, Betsey.”

“You don’t know that, honey. You’re very persuasive. Perhaps the Assembly will see reason.” He’d worked so hard on that speech, infusing it with logic and passion in equal measure. “Given the fresh news about Massachusetts, I don’t see how they can do otherwise.”

He chuckled. “Logic and reason mean very little to these men. The import tax would bolster the central government, and Clinton would rather die than give away an ounce of his influence. Were I not loath to disappoint my constituents, I wouldn’t bother defending the act at all.”

Eliza rubbed his back and pressed her lips to his jawline. “I’d still like to see you speak, even if you lose the vote. Then you’ll know you have at least one supporter.”

His head tilted to the side and down so he could catch her lips with his own. “Thank you, my angel. I’ll look forward to seeing you.” He then extracted himself from her arms and donned his hat and coat.

“I’m so proud of you,” she assured him as he pulled open the front door.

He smiled weakly and stepped out into the cold, bright morning.

**

The gallery was more full than she’d imagine, the crowd composed almost entirely of men who were hooting and hollering at each other in a manner that reminded her very much of her five year old son. And, much like her son, her presence and steady gaze seemed to chasten them. She swept down and across the gallery to find a seat in the front row, leaving a more orderly and composed crowd in her wake.

“Ma’am,” a man on the bench near her greeted, making to rise despite the traveling desk he had set up on his lap. She waved him down and sat beside him. “Mr. Childs, ma’am, of the New York Daily Advertiser.”

“Mrs. Hamilton,” she introduced herself, smoothing her skirt as she settled into her seat.

The reporter nodded. “Your husband is meant to give quite the speech. I’ll try my best to do him justice in my account.”

She smiled politely, though she’d yet to see any account of her husband’s speeches that did him justice. There was something about the conviction and earnestness of his delivery that simply couldn’t be captured by the written word. Her gaze fell to the floor of the Assembly, and she saw her husband sitting down, studying the notes he’d made last night.

Alexander seemed to feel her stare after a long moment, and he looked up with a small, tender smile. She waved subtly and blew him a kiss, which he pretended to catch. She laughed. Some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, making her doubly grateful she’d insisted on coming today.

The chairman banged his gavel at the front of the room, calling the meeting to order. “Good morning, gentlemen. Today we consider further the act granting to Congress certain imposts and duties, and specifically the clause regarding the grant of power to Congress to levy such taxes.”

Alexander rose from his seat.

“The chair recognizes Mr. Hamilton from New York City.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Her husband crossed the room and  stood straight-backed at the podium before the Assembly, his piercing gaze roaming across the rows of delegates, as though drawing them all in before he began to speak. A noticeable hush fell over the room, except for the sound of quills scratching steadily as the newspaper men began to copy down her husband’s words.

“Mr. Chairman, There appears to me to be some confusion in the manner of voting on the two preceding clauses of this bill,”* he began, voice clear and firm. Eliza settled in to listen, watching with fascination as he seemed to gather passion with each word.  As he spoke, he began to pace, his gaze moving from one man to the next as he walked. The mass of powdered heads below moved with him, back and forth before the podium.

He’d added a piece last night where he quoted directly from the Declaration of Independence to bolster his claim of constitutionality. He hadn’t written those words down when he decided to add them; he knew them by heart. She’d heard the words so many times, but to hear her husband speak them now, they felt fresh, and new, and impossibly moving. The men around her were all nodding, captivated.

As he came to the end of the of his argument regarding the constitutionality of the bill, his voice rose, impassioned. “If the arguments I have used under this head are not well founded, let gentlemen _come forward and shew their fallacy_. Let the subject have a fair and full examination, and let truth, on whatever side it may be, prevail!”*

No one stood to argue with him. No one dared.

He continued on for more than an hour, his chest working visibly and color rising in his cheeks as he built the foundations of his argument, stone by stone. Properly funding a central government posed no danger to the public liberty, he argued, and given the state of the country’s finances, the measure before the assembly was absolutely necessary to the continued existence of their country. New York had become the Atlas of the union, he claimed, and to leave the system as it was would be an act of political knight errantry.* Soft laughter emanated from the crowd at the image, just as he’d intended, and she saw Alexander smile faintly. Still he pushed on, making his points with zeal. Heads bobbed around the room as he made point after point.

Alexander’s knuckles were white against the podium as he worked towards his conclusion. “What will be the situation of our national affairs if they are left much longer to float in the chaos in which they are now involved… if there are any foreign enemies, if there are any domestic foes to this country, all their arts and artifices will be employed to effect a dissolution of the union. This cannot be better done than by sowing jealousies of the federal head and cultivating in each state an undue attachment to its own power.”*

A stunned silence reigned.

Alexander was breathing hard, absolutely spent from the effort. When he stepped down, she saw him bend at the waist and hold on to the nearest table. She worried suddenly that he would faint, given how little sleep and food he’d had over the last day. But he pushed himself up again after a moment and made his way to his seat under his own power.

“Is there to be a rebuttal?” the chairman queried, stepping up to the podium again.

Another long beat of silence passed, before one of the delegates rose from his seat. “I move for an immediate vote on the clause in question.”

Eliza felt her heartbeat quicken in her chest. Had he done it? Had he convinced them?

“I second,” another voice called.

“A motion for an immediate vote has been duly made and seconded,” the chairman called. “The vote shall now be taken.”

“Yea,” the first delegate cried.

Eliza smiled and clasped her hands together on her lap. Oh, he’d done it. She tried to catch his eye. He was sipping from a glass of water, his face tense.

“Nay,” the third man voted. And the fourth. And the fifth.

The smile leached from her face.

No. No, no. He’d worked so hard. No one had even bothered to rebut him. They knew they couldn’t compete with his words, with his ideas.

“The clause is defeated by a vote of 36 to 21. The assembly will now consider—”

She fixed her attention on her husband. His face had regained some color, at least, she noted. He’d known he’d be defeated, but the fact that no one had even bothered to try to argue against him galled her. Why should he entangle himself in petty politics at all, when this was the result?

His gaze traveled up to the gallery and landed on her.

She made herself smile at him. “I love you,” she mouthed silently.

His expression went soft, and he gave her a little nod.

**

“They couldn’t even muster a counter argument,” Eliza complained that evening as Alexander removed his coat and hat.

“They didn’t need to,” he sighed, resigned. “I told you I would lose, Betsey.”

“It’s just not fair.”

“It’s politics. It’s not meant to be fair. And it doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll be meeting in Philadelphia in May to overhaul the whole system. Let Clinton have his way for now. It will be out of his hands very, very soon.”

She held her arms out to him, and he sank into her embrace.

“I worried you were about to faint when you finished.”

“I just needed a moment to catch my breath.”

She frowned, unconvinced. His health, always delicate, felt especially tenuous when he began to overextend himself. It had been her initial concern when he went to the convention last fall, and so it remained. “You should go change into something comfortable. We’ll get some good, hearty food into you, and then you can have a proper rest.”

He pulled back from her and grinned. “No.”

“No?”

“I refuse to stay home and wallow in my defeat. Troup told me he has extra tickets for the theater tonight. Let’s get dressed up and go out.”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, sweetheart.”

“Tired? Me?” He took her by the hands and spun her around. “Perish the thought, my dear. Besides, between my practice and the New York Assembly, and you looking after the children, we haven’t had a proper night out in far too long. It will be fun.”

She couldn’t help but laugh; his good humor was contagious. “If you insist.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Papa!” Pip appeared in the entry to the parlor, bouncing eagerly on his toes. “Papa, I was really, really good today. Really! I listened to mama, and did all my letters and my sums. So can we go see the monkeys tomorrow?”

Alexander laughed and bounded forward to scoop him up. “I may give you to the monkeys. You and your sister. You should be raised amongst your own kind.”

“We’re not monkeys, Papa,” Pip protested.

“Are you sure? You sound like a monkey.”

“No I don’t.”

Alexander tickled him under the armpit, and he squealed with laughter. “Hmm, you’re right. Maybe not a monkey. Maybe you’re piglets?”

“No,” Pip giggled.

Eliza shook her head fondly as she headed upstairs to change for a night out. After selecting a dress and quickly fixing up her hair, she returned to find the animal game apparently still going. Her husband was on all fours with both Pip and Angelica on his back, and Pip was urging, “Giddy up, Papa!”

She leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at the scene.

**

Eliza tucked her hand into Alexander’s elbow and used her free hand to hold her skirts up from the snowy sidewalks as they hurried into the theater. The doorman pushed the door closed behind them as soon as they entered the lobby. Two fires glowed at the far end of the room, and she sighed at the warmth.

As she handed her cloak over to be stored, she heard a murmur of excitement ripple through the crowded lobby. She glanced back, assuming someone of importance had arrived. To her surprise, most eyes were trained on her and her husband.

Robert Troup was standing nearby, and he seemed to be encouraging in the interest in Alexander. When Alexander finished checking his coat, Troup called out, “Let’s hear it for Ham, the great man himself!”

A round of huzzahs followed, with almost the entire lobby partaking. Eliza laughed, shocked, and looked around to see Alexander blushing furiously. Troup stepped up and slapped Alexander on the back.

“Glad you came, Ham,” Troup said. “There’s talk of making you governor, after that speech of yours. You’d be a good improvement over Clinton, that much is certain.”

“It was hardly worth all this fuss,” he demurred.

“You were wonderful, darling,” Eliza interjected.

He laughed, clearly still uncomfortable, but he thanked her softly.

“There’s a few people eager to speak with you, if you wouldn’t mind,” Troup added.

Alexander glanced at her.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. I’ll go keep Mrs. Troup company,” she urged, kissing his cheek. He was quickly swept away into the crowd. Watching him for another brief moment, she looked around the lobby and spotted Jennet standing near the stairs to the box seats.

“Your dear husband is the man of the hour,” Jennet observed, taking her by the arm as she came closer.

“So I see. He certainly wasn’t expecting all this,” Eliza replied.

“He should have been. The whole city’s talking about him. He may have been unsuccessful today, but he’ll have plenty of support for whatever he can accomplish in Philadelphia this summer. Or so Troup keeps saying.”

Eliza smiled weakly. She was proud of him, truly, and glad he had so many supporters, but she wished people’s hopes for the nation weren’t resting quite so heavily on her husband’s shoulders. Jennet seemed to sense the hesitation, and she wrapped an arm around her shoulders companionably.

“Let’s go up to the box. The boys will join us eventually.” They walked up the staircase together, and Eliza took a program from an attendant outside their curtain.

She waited, and waited. Troup slipped in as the show began, but Alexander wasn’t with him. “He’ll be along,” Troup assured her in a whisper as the actors took the stage.

The first act had nearly ended before Alexander slipped into his seat at her side. He leaned close, his lips ghosting over her cheek, before he whispered, “I need to talk to you.”

“Now?”

He nodded.

Her stomach clenched. Had he accepted another government position? “All right,” she agreed, standing up and following him out into the hall.

His hand curled around hers, and he led her down the hall to a little deserted alcove.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Please, not another appointment, she pleaded silently.

“I just ran in to someone downstairs. Do remember Colonel Antil?”

She frowned, then nodded. They hadn’t seen him in some time, not since his poor wife had passed away, about two years ago. “How was he?”

Alexander shook his head. “Not very well. He’s not been coping well.” His hand squeezed hers tightly, as though he could ward off the same fate for her by holding on to her tight enough. “I suggested he come to the meeting of the Cincinnati tomorrow to request aid. He’d like to move up north to try to make a go at a farmer’s life.”

She waited, curious as to why he felt the need to immediately report this conversation to her.

“I invited him for dinner tomorrow at our house, as well.”

“That’s fine, honey,” she assured him. They had a leg of lamb she’d been planning to prepare anyway. There’d be plenty of food for a guest.

“They had a little girl, do you remember? Frances. Fanny. She’s just two.” 

“I do,” she agreed, though she hadn’t remembered the little girl’s name until now.

“He can’t take such a little babe into the wilderness with him. I was hoping…” he trailed off, his gaze on the floor.

Eliza squeezed his hand. “You were hoping?”

He looked up at her. “I know it’s a lot to ask. We have three little ones already, and you do more than the lion’s share of the work. But…I was hoping we might offer to take her in. Just temporarily, while he gets settled.”  

It was a lot to ask. As darling as their three children were, they were also a handful. But her heart went out to that poor little girl. If Antil couldn’t care for her properly, if she’d be in danger going with her father up north, how could Eliza refuse?

Alexander looked so earnest as he waited for her answer. He’d always had a soft spot for children in difficult circumstances. Much of it stemmed from his own difficult childhood, she knew, and his immense gratitude to Thomas Stevens for taking him in when he had no obligation to do so.

“Of course we can,” she agreed.

“You’re sure. We needn’t say anything if you’re not comfortable. Completely comfortable. It’s your choice.”

“I know,” she assured him. “We’ll offer to take her while he gets settled. What’s one more monkey in our little menagerie?”

He laughed. “You’re an angel.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you’ve said.”

“I mean it. A genuine angel.”

He leaned close, his lips hovering near hers. She wrapped her arms around him and let her lower lip drop open so the tip of her tongue could touch his. A soft moan fell from his lips. His hand started to wander from her lower back towards her bustle.

“Not here,” she whispered, pulling away reluctantly. The effect he had on her, she thought, blushing retroactively. Her mother would have fainted outright had she heard her daughter was standing in the middle of a public building kissing a man, husband or not. He made a discontented noise as she removed his hand from her back. “Keep that up, Mr. Hamilton, and we’ll have more than one little monkey joining us.”

He grinned. “From your lips to God’s ears, my darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From New York Assembly, Remarks on an Act Granting to Congress Certain Imposts and Duties, 15 February 1787. 
> 
> A little bit of a lighthearted fun with the Ham family :D A few history notes: 
> 
> 1\. The Hamilton's really did have a neighbor on Wall Street who purchased monkeys. Hamilton was pretty taken with them, but I imagine the kids would be excited, too. 
> 
> 2\. This speech was a pretty big deal for Hamilton. He went into the New York Assembly for one term in the run up to the Constitutional Convention. With Shays' rebellion in full force out in Massachusetts, securing funding for the central government seemed paramount. The Assembly had voted for a 5% import duty, but then refused to give the central government power to levy the tax (which kind of made no sense, as he helpfully pointed out). The New York Daily Advertiser reported that he spoke for about 90 minutes with great passion, basically exhausting himself. He rallied enough to go to the theater that night though, and he was being suggested as a replacement for George Clinton as governor. 
> 
> 3\. Colonel Edward Antil went to the Society of the Cincinnati for assistance before moving up the Canadian border. The Hamilton's agreed to take in his young daughter, Frances, for a temporary period, but when Antil died (sometime between 1791 and 1792), they kept her and raised her as their own for about ten years. It's not exactly clear when they took her in, but Angelica had heard the news in London by October 1787.


	8. Hamilton, May-September 1787

**May-September 1787**

“Don’t do it,” James McHenry muttered beside Hamilton, hardly moving his lips as he watched, attention rapt, on Washington, who stood on the other side of the room in all his stately dignity. Gouverneur Morris was striding towards the General, his cane and wooden leg thumping on the floor in a rhythmic one-two pattern. “Don’t do it.”

“He’s going to do it,” Hamilton whispered to his old friend, grinning and already starting to shake with laughter.

“You’re looking well, my dear General,” Morris boomed. His hand landed firmly on Washington’s back in a companionable pat, then lingered.

“Oh my God.” Mac placed his palm over his eyes.

Washington tensed visibly at the touch and slowly turned his head. Morris froze in place under Washington’s icy gaze. Slowly, he removed his hand from the General’s shoulder. With a nod and an uncomfortable smile, Morris slunk back across the room towards them.

Hamilton was laughing so hard he had to hold on to Mac’s shoulders to keep himself upright. Morris glared at him as he approached. Trying to bring his great guffaws under control, Hamilton managed to comment, “Well done, my good fellow.”

“I thought for a moment there I’d been turned to stone,” Morris said. He chanced a fearful glance back towards Washington, who had resumed his careful observation of the fireplace. When Hamilton collapsed into Mac, overcome with laughter again, he added, “I’m glad you found that amusing.”

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Mac said, still shaking his head.

“I told you not to,” Hamilton defended himself, still laughing. “The General hates being touched. And he’s not been feeling well. His sore head has been making him grouchy as a grizzly bear.”

Morris’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t mention the last part.”

“Didn’t I?”

Morris shook his head once, decisively.

“Oops,” Hamilton grinned.

“You’re the devil, Ham,” Morris grumbled, stalking away towards another group.

“Colonel Hamilton,” he heard Washington call from across the room. He looked, and saw Jemmy standing in front of the General. The two were looking at him expectantly.

He breathed out slowly to calm his mirth. Mac took a large step to the side, as though to distance himself from Hamilton and whatever trouble he may be in with their good old commander. Smirking at his friend, Hamilton excused himself and made his way towards the fireplace.

“Good evening, sir,” he greeted Washington with a sunny smile.

“You and Major McHenry seemed to be having a grand time,” Washington observed. A fond twinkle glimmered in the General’s eye and the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. Had Washington intuited his mischief, he wondered, and played along? Or was he simply glad to see Hamilton and Mac enjoying themselves? 

“I always enjoy a chance to socialize with my old companions,” he answered. Turning his attention to his other friend, he inquired, “How are you, Jemmy?”

Jemmy tilted his head in a noncommittal gesture. “General Washington and I were just discussing the assembly tomorrow. Mr. Randolph has agreed to submit my plan for consideration. I wondered if you might be prevailed upon to speak after him?”

Although the assembly had achieved a quorum a week ago, no serious inroads had been made to improving their current constitution or developing a new one. He took heart that Jemmy finally felt ready to put forward the plan he’d developed in the months since the Annapolis convention. “I’d be happy to do my part. What do you need?”

“I read your speech from the New York Assembly where you tried to convince your colleagues of the importance of giving Congress the power to levy the five percent impost under consideration. You spoke very movingly about the need for a stronger union between the states. I hoped you might rework your comments for the gentleman now assembled.”

Jemmy wanted him to be the one to call for scrapping the Articles of Confederation, he understood. He sighed. With Lansing and Yates as his co-delegates, both hardened Clintonians, he had no leverage or influence over his own state’s vote, but perhaps he could convince some of the other delegates of what needed to be done.

“It would be my honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton,” Jemmy nodded, with the same twitch of a smile that Washington favored.

A roar of laughter rose up from the next room. Hamilton craned his head around, looking for the cause of the sudden jocularity. “That’ll be Doctor Franklin,” Washington commented behind him. “Have you been introduced yet, Alex?”

The familiar name from the General made him furrow his brow. For all the General’s ill humor over the past few days, he seemed to be regarding Hamilton in a peculiarly fond manner. He pushed the thoughts aside; he’d learned long ago not to question Washington’s inconstant moods, and to simply enjoy any time spent in his good graces.

“Not formally, sir. We’ve never spoken outside the assembly.”

The great and famous Benjamin Franklin had arrived at the first session carried aloft in a chair by four convicts like some great old sultan from a distant empire. While Hamilton had seconded Franklin’s first motion, he’d not yet had the chance to interact more substantially with the venerable old man.

“Come along, then. He’ll be delighted to meet you,” Washington said, touching his back lightly to urge him onward.

Hamilton’s eye just happened to meet Morris’s as Washington tapped his back, and he saw Morris’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had to try to cover the sudden burst of laughter that resulted. “Excuse me,” he coughed, covering his mouth. Washington’s eyes were twinkling again when he looked back at him. The General was almost certainly in on the mischief, he thought, smiling.

“My dear General,” Franklin called out as they entered the adjoining room. “Please, come join us. Has someone refreshed your glass?” He waved a servant over, despite this being Mr. and Mrs. Bingham’s home. When you were world famous and revered, you could command any room you entered, Hamilton supposed.

“Thank you,” Washington nodded to the servant. They moved close to the settee where Franklin was holding court, and one of the men gave up his seat for the General. Hamilton remained standing at his side. “I don’t believe you’ve met Colonel Hamilton yet, Doctor Franklin.”

“Hamilton.” Franklin frowned over his name, adjusting his glasses down his nose to peer at him. “Oh, yes. Hamilton. The hero of Yorktown, isn’t that right?” 

He was about to demur when he heard Washington confirm, “Just so.”

“Ah, see, my mind is still firm, even if this old body is starting to give way,” Franklin jested, then tipped his head and raised his glass. “A great honor, sir, to be included in such fine company as yours.”

“I did only my duty, sir,” he pleaded, feeling his cheeks warm under Franklin and Washington’s praise. “But I am beyond honored to make your acquaintance, Doctor Franklin.”

Franklin waved away the flattery like an annoying fly. “Where are you from, Colonel Hamilton?”

“Originally the West Indies, sir, but since the war I’ve made New York my home.”

“He’s connected to the Schuyler family,” Washington explained for him.

Franklin’s whole face lit up at the mention of the Schuylers. “I passed some very enjoyable hours at General Schuyler’s home last time I was in Albany, perhaps a century or so ago.” Hamilton laughed dutifully. “What vivacious young daughters he had. So charming, and bright. Can you believe one of them beat at checkers? Miss Elizabeth, I believe it was. And she seemed so unassuming at first. God help the man who ends up married to her. He’s in for a shock if he thinks he’s acquired himself a humble Dutch housewife, that much is certain.”

Hamilton grinned at the description of his wife. Eliza had told him the story of meeting Mr. Franklin when he’d stayed at the Pastures back before the war, and he was delighted to hear his darling Betsey had made such an impression on the man in return. “I thank you for your well wishes, sir, though I assure you I was under no such illusion when I made my vows.”

Franklin raised his bushy brows. “Ah, so you’re the lucky fellow who caught that remarkable young lass. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir. Though I wouldn’t say I caught her. She bewitched me, body and soul. I had little choice but to go along.”

“Sounds about right,” Franklin chuckled. “Well, come, sit down, Colonel. Sit, sit.” One of the gentleman near Franklin surrendered his seat so Hamilton could sit beside him, and a servant quickly hurried to place a glass in his hand.

“Now, Colonel, what do you think of our most august assembly so far?”

**

Hamilton’s knee bounced impatiently as the coach made its way down Wall Street. When his little townhouse at last came into view, he had to fight off the instinct to leap from the moving vehicle. He was desperate to get home.

It wasn’t just that the convention had taken a turn for unbearable, though it absolutely had. The cramped gray and green East Room, located upstairs in the State House, the very same that had witnessed the historic signing of the Declaration of Independence, had now been overrun by petty politics and sniping. Secrecy demanded the windows be closed, which left every delegate, to a man, sweating and ornery, and often more concerned with swatting flies than listening to the endless speeches.

He could feel the chance for strengthening the union slipping through their collectively sweaty palms.

At least there had been some hope of movement on the deadlock when he’d left. The delegates had entrenched themselves in support of either the Virginia plan, favored by the larger states, and the New Jersey plan, favored by the smaller. Jemmy, despairing of finding any solution, had approached him in mid-June for his opinion. He’d answered honestly that he was not truly in sympathy with either camp.

“What would you see done?” Jemmy pressed.

“It won’t be popular,” Hamilton had cautioned. When Jemmy continued to press, he’d answered finally, “What we need is as close an approximation of the British system as can be replicated on our soil. The British government is the best in the world and I doubt very much whether anything short of it will do in America.”*

“You’d wish us to install a monarch?”

“Monarch is an indefinite term,” he’d replied evasively, though he’d never balked at the idea as much as most of his countrymen.* For all the talk of tyranny that characterized the discourse of the revolution, it had been Parliament, not King George, with whom the colonists had first clashed. Had the king consented to allow them to form their own separate parliament, they never would have declared independence at all.

Madison had nodded distractedly, and Hamilton fancied he could see political calculations whirling behind his eyes. “You should speak,” Jemmy suggested after a long pause.

“What will be the point? I can’t even influence my own state’s vote, and I’m quite certain no one will agree with my opinion on the matter.”

“No,” Jemmy agreed bluntly. “They won’t. But to hear your plan makes Virginia’s proposal sound moderate by comparison. If you speak honestly, very honestly, about your opinion, and emphasize how _democratic_ Randolph’s proposal truly is, we may move some of the smaller states to make some concessions.”

“Easy enough, for what even is the Virginia plan but democracy checked by democracy, or pork with a little change of the sauce?”*

“That,” Jemmy declared excitedly. “Say that.”

“You’re going to get me hanged as a Tory,” Hamilton had smirked.

“It’s a secret convention. No one outside that room will hear the details. It’s our only chance to create a true union, Hamilton. Please.”

He’d consented, and made the heretical speech Madison requested. Much like his speech in the New York assembly the year before, no one even bothered to debate him on the merits of his plan. But, encouragingly, he’d sensed the merest hint of a shift in the smaller states, a new willingness to at least discuss the Virginia plan.

Lansing and Yates must have sensed it too, for both men abandoned the convention with no intention of returning. Without at least two of the three delegates, New York no longer retained the power to vote in the convention. Now that both men had left the convention for good, he wondered just how long that speech of his would stay secret.

But no, it wasn’t just the interminable debates and miserable feeling of uselessness that had driven him home. Not even his court cases were the true cause, though that’s what he’d told Jemmy when he’d kept needling him for the reason he was abandoning the convention in such a moment of crisis. “Some of us have to work for a living,” he’d snapped at his friend. “I don’t have the luxury of abandoning my legal practice for months at a time.”

No, it was his wife. His darling, darling wife. He felt anxiety clench in his gut as he examined the townhouse for any indication of the distress within, hurrying to grab his bags from the coach. 

She’d written to him that she been feeling unwell in early June, but that it was nothing serious. He’d worried at that, but not unduly. Eliza possessed positively rude good health most of the time, but a sniffle now and then was to be expected, he’d tried to soothe himself. His reply to her had a perhaps fanciful request that she come join him in Philadelphia, for it felt impossible for him to submit to such a long separation from her and the children, whatever the expense or inconvenience it might necessitate for her to travel to his side.1

Only after he’d sent the letter did he truly come to grips with just how ridiculous the suggestion was. He’d awaited her reply, expecting a teasing rebuke. Instead, after a long delay, he’d received an unusually short note where she’d admitted she was feeling too unwell to travel such a long distance. He shouldn’t worry over her, though, but be sure to see to his own health. Was he resting properly? Eating regularly?

That’s when he knew he needed to leave.

Eliza was the most supportive, loving person he’d ever met in his life. He adored that part of her, her tender concern and her unwavering devotion. However, it did leave him concerned sometimes. She was the kind of person who’d worry, with perfect sincerity, over his stubbed toe even as she slowly bled to death herself.

When he thrust open the front door and tossed his portmanteau down in the foyer, he could immediately hear his sweet little cherubs playing in the front parlor. “You sit here, Fanny,” Angelica was instructing. She’d taken to the role of bossy big sister like a duck to water.

He peered into the parlor and observed the beautifully domestic scene he’d been lacking for the past two months. Pip had been freed from his lessons it seemed, because he was rocking merrily on the play horse that sat in the parlor when no company was expected. Angelica seemed to have organized a pretend tea party, because she’d seated little Fanny down across from her and was now pushing an empty pewter cup across the floor. Fanny didn’t seem to mind the handling, and she sat placidly where she’d been placed, sucking her thumb and cuddling the old cloth rabbit Pip had recently outgrown. Best of all, he saw Eliza with them, on her hands and knees behind the sofa, apparently fishing out a toy for baby Alex, who was toddling curiously by her side.

The sight of her up and about with the children eased the tight knot in his middle. 

“Hi Papa,” Pip greeted with a wave, though he didn’t stop his ride on the horse.

He waved back, smiling at his little boy’s enthusiasm. “Hello my little lambs.” Stepping further in to the room, he added, “And hello to you, my dearest angel. You had me very worried after your last letter.”

When Eliza scooted back to look at him, however, he found, to his shock, that it wasn’t actually Eliza at all.

“Well, my darling,” Peggy said with a teasing drawl as she looked up at him, “I don’t quite remember writing to you, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Peggy? Where’s Eliza?” he asked, frowning heavily.

“Upstairs.” Some of the amusement drained from Peggy’s face. “She’s been a touch under the weather. I came down to help look after the little ones so she could rest.”

He fled from the room and raced up the stairs two at a time. He’d known something was wrong. He’d felt it. He should have left sooner, after her first letter. She never admitted to illness lightly, not when she knew how he worried over her.

The bedroom was dim when he opened the door, with the curtains pulled over the windows to keep out the summer sunshine. His wife rested peacefully on their bed in her nightgown, the sheets mostly kicked aside, unnecessary in the heat of the afternoon. He approached quietly and sat gingerly on the bed.

She shifted a little, but didn’t wake.

He rested the back of his hand against her forehead, then her cheek, trying to test her temperature. She didn’t feel warm to the touch, but he’d have to go collect the thermometer to be sure. Sighing, he leaned down and touched his lips to her forehead.

“Betsey?” He touched his finger to her darling little button nose, which wrinkled slightly from the tickling sensation. “Betsey?”

At last, her eyelids fluttered and she gave a long sigh. “Mm. Alexander?”

“It’s me. I’m home.”

She smiled softly, then frowned, and began to push herself up in bed. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Philadelphia.”

“I needed to see you. Don’t sit up, my angel. You should rest.”

She rolled her eyes and finished arranging herself into a seated position. “I told you not to worry. I’m not that fragile, sweetheart.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’ve just been a little lightheaded, lately. I think it’s this terrible heat. Really nothing for you to rush home over,” she scolded lightly again. “You worry too much.”

“A rich accusation coming from you,” he teased.

She laughed and shook her head stubbornly. “No. I worry the exact right amount.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Mm hm.” Her smile was big enough that he could see her dimples.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her soft lips. Her hand came up to cradle his cheek. “I’ve missed you so much,” he confessed when their lips parted.

“I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart. I wish you didn’t travel all that way on my account, but I’m very happy to have you home for a little while.”

He sighed and collapsed against her, so that his head rested on her chest, over her heart. The steady beat beneath his ear was perhaps the only sound in the world that could soothe the anxiety he’d been carrying all the way from Philadelphia. Her fingers stroked soothingly over his hair as she adjusted to hold him to her.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” he admitted.

“You’ll go back.” She spoke in a confident tone, as though she’d peered into his future and seen exactly what was going to happen.

He shook his head against her. “No. It’s awful, Betsey. They all snipe at each other like children. Worse, actually. Our children are better behaved. It’s just men with outsized egos listening to themselves give speeches while everyone else ignores them.”

“Have you given any of those speeches?” she asked lightly.

He smirked, taking her point. “I have. I gave a brilliant address that lasted six hours and would have cured all our nation’s ills. And I was the only one in the room who listened.”

“Ah,” she chuckled. He felt the vibration roll through her chest, and clutched her closer. “Surely it can’t be all bad.”

“I did get to meet Doctor Franklin,” he granted. “He remembered you, you know, from when he stayed with your family in Albany. He says you beat him at checkers.”

“I did,” she confirmed. “Soundly, might I add.”

He curled closer to her, relishing in her solid weight beneath his arms. He couldn’t stand to leave her again. He couldn’t. “I don’t want to go back.”

“All right, sweetheart,” she soothed, rubbing his back tenderly and still stroking his hair. “Stay home with us for a little while. We’ll see how you feel after you’ve had some rest and some time away from your frustrations.”

**

Eliza was right, of course.

He did go back. Not a week after he’d left, General Washington had written him of his continued despair at the proceedings, and added a simple appeal: “I am sorry you went away. I wish you were back.”2 After seeing to his business and spending some much needed time with his wife and babes, he packed his bag and set off for Philadelphia once more.

When he returned, he found a great deal of progress had been made towards an actual agreement. The Connecticut Compromise, people were calling it. Hamilton collected the notes from Madison’s room in the Indian Queen tavern and took them down to read the speeches he’d missed and catch up on the latest gossip.

“Washington took us to task the other day,” Morris reported with some amusement. “Apparently someone’s been careless with their notes of the latest resolutions. He gave us a good talking to about taking care not to distress the public with our premature musings.”

“Whose paper was it?” Hamilton asked curiously, skimming over the notes of one of Madison’s rebuttals.

“No one’s claimed it. It’s still sitting there on podium by Washington’s seat.”

Hamilton laughed, though he couldn’t say he’d be brave enough to risk Washington’s ire were they his notes at the front of the room. His eyes flicked up just long enough to see Mac, bright red in the cheeks, sinking down towards his ale. Their eyes met, and Mac shook his head desperately.

His poor, dear Mac.

On and on the debates went.

In early August, Hamilton felt his disgust with his fellow delegates growing daily as they began to debate the issue of slavery. He’d have liked to see a provision for gradual abolition included, of course, but the vehement arguments from the slave-holding states made it clear that any such provision would end the whole debate. And then they’d gone the extra step to demand their slaves be counted for representation.

“They treat the poor men like property!” Morris railed, reiterating his speech from the floor that day. “If a slave be a man, treat him as such, and set him free and let him vote. But if they continue to treat their slaves as little better than cattle, then by God, they shouldn’t profit from his numbers in the federal legislature.”

Hamilton sighed glumly over his drink. Listening to the delegate from South Carolina debate Morris that afternoon had brought back dark specter of grief. Jack should have been the delegate for South Carolina, he’d thought, nearly glaring at the man—the imposter—as he’d spoken from his seat. Jack never would have stood and defended the appalling institution.

“You’ve been quiet,” Morris observed after taking a long dram.

Hamilton shrugged.

“You don’t find it an outrage that they’ll be able to count three fifths of their enslaved population? That the south’s representation and influence will be unjustly bloated by their inhumane institution?”

He found it an outrage that they had an enslaved population to count in the first place. But that was the sort of radical comment he’d only say to Jack and Lafayette. And though he took Morris’s argument in the spirit in which it was offered, he couldn’t shake the distaste he felt at hearing the antislavery contingent of their delegation comparing enslaved men and women to livestock. “They’re people,” he said softly.

Morris frowned at him.

“That’s the difference, Morris. They’re people. I hate that counting them won’t do a thing towards helping them, but they should count. Everyone should count.”3 

Morris took another long drink. He didn’t raise his complaints again. At least, not in Hamilton’s earshot.  

He’d gone home again not long after, needing the comfort of his wife to help him push through the final days. Although Eliza had been better when he’d left, he was heartsick to find her ill again when he returned. It was even worse than before; she could barely hold food down. When he’d tried to talk to her about how worried he was, though, she only laughed.

“This time, it’s your fault, my love.”

He’d frowned in confusion until she’d placed his hand over her belly. His eyes widened as he touched her soft middle with a new reverence. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded. “I’ve been in this state enough to know the signs.” She studied his face for a long moment before asking, “Are you happy?”

He’d grinned at her. “Betsey, I am so happy.”

The knowledge of that little life they were expecting had given him strength enough to return to Philadelphia for the last time. When the final agreements had been struck, he joined the committee of style and arrangement to help put the language in order. The document bore little resemblance to his ideal government, but it was infinitely better than their current Articles, and he vowed to do his best to see it implemented.

Though he couldn’t vote on behalf of New York, he voiced his own support when the final draft came to the floor for a vote, and willingly affixed his signature to the bottom of the page before leaving the East Room for the last time. The delegates all met for a farewell dinner at the City Tavern down the road, each man trying to drown the enormity of the task ahead by falling deep into their cups for the night. They were all committed now, whether they liked it or not.

A more perfect union, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot packed into this one again...I hope it didn't come out too long and rambly! The constitutional convention could be a novel and and of itself :D
> 
> *Quotes from James Madison’s notes on Hamilton’s speech and from private conversations. 
> 
> 1 Hamilton to Eliza, May 1786-April 1788. The date on this letter is unsettled, but I think it fits well with Hamilton’s trip to the Constitutional Convention, given he was gone for a substantial period and wasn’t sure how long his absence would continue. 
> 
> 2 Washington to Hamilton, 10 July 1787
> 
> 3 Speech in the New York Ratifying Convention, 20 June 1788. This was actually a point Hamilton raised at the ratifying convention in Poughkeepsie in 1788--counting the enslaved population gave slave states a huge advantage in the early republic, and many antislavery proponents argued that if they were going to treat those people like property in every other way, then they shouldn’t be counted towards the population where it helped those states. Hamilton rose to defend the 3/5 clause in the convention, and his reaction was basically the one above—that slaves “are men, though degraded in the condition of slavery. They are persons known to the municipal laws of the states in which they inhabit, as well as to the laws of nature,” and thus were properly counted towards representation. 
> 
> Also, I just want to point out that Eliza absolutely did meet Benjamin Franklin first :D


	9. Eliza, April 1788

**April 1788**

Warm bathwater sloshed gently against the sides of the tub as Eliza stretched out her toes and laid her head back against a folded towel, luxuriating in the quiet, stolen moment after a long, stressful day. Just a few minutes without someone tugging and pulling at her, or whining, or crying, that’s all she needed. With their new baby asleep at last and her other children all tucked into their beds, she was making the most of the coveted alone time.

“Eww, what is that?” Angelica’s voice carried in from the girls’ bedroom, tinged with a combination of fascination and disgust. Little feet scurried across the hall—no doubt Pip swooping to his sister’s aid. Eliza opened her eyes, but waited, hoping the children would settle again without her having to get up. 

 “Whoa,” Pip said, notable excitement in his voice. “I think it’s a monster.”

They weren’t going to settle, she decided, heaving a sigh. She’d already scrubbed herself clean, at least. A relaxing soak was too much to hope for with five rambunctious children in the house. Toweling off quickly, she slipped on her dressing gown and stepped out into the hall.

“Careful Pip,” Angelica warned.

“I don’t like it,” Fanny fretted. “I want Mama.”

“Don’t worry, Fanny,” Pip answered. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Angelica was hanging upside down to peer under the bed, her pigtails brushing the wooden floor, when Eliza stopped in the doorway. Pip had laid on his tummy to look under the bed. Fanny, by contrast, seemed to have absolutely no interest in seeing what was under the bed. She had her knees curled into her chest as she watched her two older siblings fearfully, and as soon as she spotted Eliza, she cried, “Mama!”

“What are you two doing?” Eliza demanded, quick to scoop little Fanny into her arms. Her back twinged at the little girl’s weight, her body already sore from lifting the children all day long and still tender from giving birth two weeks prior. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“There’s a monster, Mama,” Angelica explained, as though that were a perfectly reasonable explanation. Fanny whimpered and clutched even tighter onto Eliza.

“There’s no such thing as monsters,” Eliza replied. She brushed her hand down Fanny’s back soothingly. “I want you both back in your beds where you belong.”

“I am in my bed,” Angelica replied obstinately.

Eliza closed her eyes and took a deep breath, praying for patience to deal with the contrary three year old. When she had a handle on her temper, she clarified, “Properly in your bed. You don’t sleep upside down like a bat, now, do you?”

Angelica swung up with a sweet little giggle. “No, Mama,” she agreed.

Pip had edged further under the bed in the meantime, and Eliza nudged his arm with her toes. “You, too, Pip.”

“But Mama, there really is a monster,” Pip insisted, even as he slid back to look up at her.

“Philip,” she said sternly.

His eyes turned big and imploring. “There is, Mama, I swear.”

Easing Fanny back onto her bed, Eliza knelt down beside Pip to look for herself. She saw an abandoned stocking, and one of Alex’s blocks, for some reason, but no monster. “I don’t see anything.”

“Right there.” Pip pointed to the shadowy far corner.

Squinting, Eliza examined the far corner, and slowly made out something large and furry curled up on itself. Beady little eyes peered back at her as her eyes adjusted. “Eugh,” she grunted, pushing away quickly.

“See. I told you,” Angelica said smugly. “A monster.”

“It’s not a monster,” Eliza said, tugging Pip away from the bed. “It think it’s a rat.”

A very big, disgusting rat. Living in the city meant dealing with the creatures invading their home in a way that simply didn’t happen out in the country, but understanding that reality didn’t make her feel any better when she saw one. Snakes she could deal with, even mice she didn’t mind, but rats—no. She shivered.

She lifted Angelica off the bed, then collected Fanny and herded the children out into the hall towards the boys’ room. “Come on, into bed,” she urged, placing Fanny beside Alex while Angelica happily climbed up into Pip’s bed. “I’m going to get Papa to deal with the rat.”

“Can I help?” Pip asked, still standing beside his bed looking hopeful.

“No,” Eliza refused. Pip whined unhappily. Wanting to head off a full tantrum by her eldest, she instructed, “You stay here and look after your sisters.”

Being given the role of protector seemed to pacify him, and he scrambled up into the bed beside Angelica. Seeing them all settled, Eliza shut the door and made her way downstairs. Candlelight emanated from under the closed office door as she approached her husband’s office.

She pushed open the door without knocking. “I need you to come upstairs.”

He jumped in his chair and looked up at her, visibly startled. His surprise likely stemmed from more than just her abrupt appearance, she considered. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder all day. “Eliza, what—?”

“Upstairs,” she repeated shortly, pointing towards the stairway.

He blinked. “I’m in the middle of a brief—”

“Now,” she insisted. “Angelica found a rat under her bed.”

“Ah,” he sighed, pushing back from his desk. “All right. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” she said, with grudging sincerity. 

He gave her a tentative smile as he slipped past her. She trailed him up the stairs and folded her arms in the doorway to the girls’ room while her husband hunted for something with which to trap the creature. “The chamber pot is empty,” she suggested. “That at least has a top.”

Hamilton nodded agreeably, and grabbed the pot as he slid down onto his belly to peer under the bed. “Where was it?”

“Far corner. It’s big.”

“Egh. That is big.”

She watched him adjust further under the bed and hugged her arms closer against her chest. Frowning, she queried, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Madison?”

He stilled and craned his head back to look at her, looking as trapped and confused as the rat. “Not yet,” he answered carefully. “Why?”

She shrugged one shoulder; she wasn’t sure why she’d asked herself.

Jemmy had become a familiar figure in their home over the past half year, coming over for dinner almost daily, and staying late into the night while he and Hamilton drafted their essay series defending the new constitution. He’d loosened up somewhat over the years, she granted, and more than once she’d heard the two men laughing behind the closed office door. They’d even made a habit of bringing grapes along when they went on walks, so that they might feed the neighbor’s monkey. Even so, Eliza couldn’t honestly claim to miss the reserved Virginian now that he’d returned to his home state.

It was more that she’d grown accustomed to Hamilton talking of him, she supposed. Jemmy and their project seemed to fill his mind of late, leaving little space for anything else. Having hardly spoken to her husband all day, Jemmy had seemed the most natural line of inquiry.

There was something depressing about that, she thought.

Hamilton looked at her moment longer, then sighed and rolled over to see to the rat. As he pushed the chamber pot closer to where the rat had been, she heard a terrified squeak and scurrying paws. “Damn,” her husband swore, readjusting. His voice carried out from under the bed, slightly muffled as he complained, “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d let me kill the damn creatures.”

“I don’t want them dead. I just don’t want them in my house,” she said, the same answer she gave every time they had this fight.

“Why do you have to be so compassionate?” he asked rhetorically, as the chamber pot slammed down again, eliciting more squeaks and scurrying.

“I have a soft spot for strays.”

She could hear the smile in his voice when he answered, “I suppose I can’t complain about that. It’s likely the reason we’re married.”

She laughed softly despite her displeasure with him, and granted, “You had a little more to recommend you than a rat.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Only a little, mind you.”

He laughed. “Understood.”

The chamber pot slammed down again, and again he mumbled, “Damn. It’s a scrappy little thing.” 

“See, even a rat can have redeeming qualities,” she teased.

“Would we call that redeeming?” he wondered aloud, before letting out a triumphal “Ah ha!”

“Did you get it?”

“I did,” he declared, pulling out the chamber pot and easy the top underneath it to keep the creature trapped. “Safe and sound, as requested.”

“Let it out near the trees by the river, so it can find some shelter. All this rain we’ve been having is probably what drove it inside in the first place.”

“I’ll give it to Robert,” he said, holding the top in place. “He can drive it out a ways so it won’t find its way back to our daughters’ bedroom.”

She wasn’t sure their new servant and driver would appreciate the task. “I already told him he could retire for the night.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he replied airily.

“Then why can’t you do it?”

His eyes flashed at her tone. “I told you I was in the middle of writing a brief. You know how pressed I’ve been for time. If I don’t complete my work, we won’t have money to pay our servants, or our rent, for that matter.”

Annoyance washed over her. She was the one juggling their bills while Hamilton cut back on his legal work so he could go back to the Continental Congress. “And whose fault is it that you’ve so little time?” she snapped.

He must have sensed he’d fallen into a trap. His jaw set. “Don’t start this again.”

“You can’t take the time to rid the house of vermin, but somehow you find hours in the day to see to constituents, and stand for new elections besides.”

“I knew that’s what this was about,” he huffed.

“Of course it is.” He always acted like the cause of her anger was some great mystery. As if they didn’t have the exact same fight over and over again. “You didn’t even bother to tell me you were standing for the election to the ratifying convention. I had to read about your victory it in the newspaper.”

 “Of course I stood for the election. What do you think the point of writing all those essays was? Pleasure? This new constitution has been the focus of my efforts for the better part of a year. I wasn’t going to stop now.”

“You could have told me.”

“I would have.”

“When? When you were packing for Poughkeepsie?”

“Today, if you hadn’t seen the paper first. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew there was something to report,” he replied. “You know now. What difference does it make?”

“None,” she spat. “You’re right, it makes none whatsoever. Why would I expect you to include me in making major life decisions, when I can just read about them in the newspaper like everyone else?”

“Eliza—”

“Just get rid of the rat.” She threw her hands up and stormed off towards her bedroom, snapping the door shut behind her.

She tested the water in the bathtub with her hand. Stone cold. Of course.

Jamie let out a wail from the nursery.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

**

“Betsey? Are you awake?”

She rolled over towards the voice with a soft groan. Once she’d seen to the baby and settled the children back into their proper beds, she’d fallen into bed, utterly exhausted. “I am now.”

“Sorry,” Hamilton whispered. She felt his weight settle on the mattress. “I didn’t want us to go to sleep angry with each other.”

She grunted. He was a little late, than. Peeling her eyes open, she found him watching her with a guilty expression in the flickering candlelight.

She stayed quiet, waiting.

“I am sorry, truly. I should have told you when I put my name forth for the convention.”

“And Congress,” she prompted.

“And Congress,” he repeated.

“And the Constitutional Convention. And Annapolis.”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“It’s hard to believe you’re sorry when you keep doing it.”

“I know. I know.” He looked down at his lap. “I know you’d rather I remain a private citizen. Focus on my career. Spend time with you and the children. I want that, too. I do. But I feel like I need to see this through. I bled, and killed, and starved to see this country free, and I refuse to see it all fall apart now.”

She pushed herself up into a seated position. “What on earth makes you think I wouldn’t support you returning to public life, Alexander?”

“You worry about me. My health. And the money—I don’t make nearly as much when I take these positions as I do when I stay with my practice.”

She shook her head at him, softening a little. “You have whole conversations in your head with me, don’t you?”

“What?”

“That explanation—you were spinning out a whole conversation between us without me having to say a word.”

He frowned, expression turning thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Sweetheart, I do worry about you, and our family. But if you truly feel you need to take these positions, you must know I’d never stop you. I just want to feel like I’m part of your life.”

He looked stricken. “Dear God, Betsey, of course you are. You’re the most important part of my life.”

“Well, when I have to read about your candidacy for positions in the newspaper, it doesn’t feel like it.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. His hand inched towards hers on the mattress. “You know how much I rely on you: on your wisdom, and good sense. I think that’s why I don’t tell you when I agree to these things. Some part of me understands how foolhardy and irresponsible it is for a poor man with a family and clients who rely on him to take these positions. The look in your eyes when I tell you only confirms it for me.”

“I don’t think you’re foolhardy, or irresponsible. We always manage when you’re away from your practice. I really am so proud of you for all the work you’ve done for the country.”

He smiled weakly, and she reached out to take his hand.

“You talk to me all the time about speeches, and essays, and cases, but when it comes to the big things, the important things, I feel like you shut me out. That scares me.”

“I don’t mean to shut you out,” he said.

“Those conversations you have in your head with me? Do you think you could have them out loud from now on?” she requested, squeezing his hand. “My actual answers may surprise you.”

His smile stretched a little wider as he nodded with a slight chuckle. “I will. I promise.”

“All right.” As much as she hoped he would change, half of her was sure they’d be having another version the very same fight again in the future. That was marriage, she supposed.

Sighing, she crooked the forefinger of her free hand to invite him in for a kiss. He leaned in eagerly, capturing her lips with his, their fingers still entwined. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And I appreciate you, Eliza. So much. Taking care of the babies, and me, keeping everything running peaceably. You’re amazing.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice a little tight. It was hardly the first time he’d voiced appreciation for all she did every day, but she’d needed to hear it tonight. Her emotions still felt on edge, the way they always did right after a baby came.   

He shook his head to dismiss her thanks and kissed her again. “How about a back rub?” he offered, his free hand already sliding across her hip to her lower back.

“Mm, that sounds lovely,” she sighed, melting towards him as his fingers danced across her abused muscles, sore from constantly lifting children all day long. She rolled onto her stomach as he began to massage in earnest, his hands big and warm and tender, kneading gently in just the right places.

“Have you noticed this fight always seems to end in a back rub?” he remarked with amusement, shifting over her to rub beneath her shoulder blade.

With a pleased moan, she assured him, “That’s not a bad thing.”

He leaned down close, so that the breath from his soft laugh displaced the loose hair around her neck. It tickled, but in the best sort of way. His lips ghosted over her ear to land gently on her neck. “I suppose not,” he agreed.

This was far better than a hot bath, she decided, as she twisted around to tug him closer for a proper kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James Alexander Hamilton was born on April 14, 1788, and the election results for the New York ratifying convention came out at the end of April. Hamilton had paused briefly in writing the Federalist Papers around this time because he had cases in court. He was also a member of congress and, now, selected as a delegate to vote on the Constitution in June. Meanwhile, Eliza was home with five children all under the age of six. 
> 
> Both of them exhaust me :) 
> 
> Next up, we're finally diving in to the Washington administration! (Ok, that may not be a good thing...)


	10. Hamilton, April 1789

**April 1789**

Applause drowned out the last strains of the violins as Hamilton put his right foot forward and bowed formally to Angelica. She curtsied properly in return, her watered silk gown just brushing the wooden floor and her opulent diamond necklace and earrings sparkling in the light from the chandeliers overhead. Her elegant finery was more fit for an audience with the Prince of Wales than their humble republican Inaugural reception, and had drawn jealous sidelong glances from the other ladies all evening. 

“Shall I fetch us some refreshment?” he asked as the dull hum of conversation filled the room in place of the gigue they’d just danced.

“Are you tired of dancing with me already?” Angelica teased, even as her arm linked with his.

“I’m feeling a little warm,” he pleaded, leading her towards the punch bowl on the side of the room.

Not a lie, entirely, as sweat was indeed gathering at his temples, but he was also very conscious of the eyes of the room on them. Angelica’s beauty and wit had only grown in the years she’d been away in Europe, and he’d been all too happy to engage with her in witty retorts and complicated dance steps at the various dinners and events they’d attended since she’d arrived in New York. After a despicable attack in the newspaper had raised the suspicion of an improper connection between the two of them last month, though, he had determined to do nothing more to add fodder to the gossip mill.1

A servant had already ladled the rum punch into short glasses arrayed decoratively around the bowl, each garnished with a thinly sliced orange. He handed one glass to Angelica and took a long sip from his own, then coughed, the strong spirits burning down his throat. Angelica, who had taken a very dainty sip from her own glass, laughed.

“I wouldn’t recommend quenching your thirst with this particular beverage, my dear brother,” she winked, “Or Betsey and I will be carrying you home.”

 “Indeed,” he agreed around a cough. He shook out a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth, and when the fit had passed he dabbed at his sweaty forehead before stuffing it back in place.

He cast his eye around the crowded room. In the sea of brightly colored gowns and towering feathers, he couldn’t seem to find Eliza. She’d been whisked away for a dance with General Knox quite some time ago, and she must have found a different partner since, because she appeared to be nowhere near their heavyset host now.

“Mrs. Church.” The call was loud enough to hear over the general clamor of conversation and the starting notes of the next dance. He and Angelica both looked around to see John Adams making his way towards them, with a young man trailing behind him. Adams bowed stiffly and belatedly took Angelica’s outstretched, white-gloved hand, kissing the back of it awkwardly.

“How delightful to see you on this side of the Atlantic, Mr. Adams,” Angelica greeted with a warm, gracious smile. “You must know Mr. Hamilton, my dear sister’s husband.”

“By reputation only,” Adams contradicted. His face seemed perpetually set in a scowl, so that Hamilton couldn’t tell if it was his reputation Adams found displeasing, or simply the general celebratory atmosphere.

“A great pleasure, Mr. Vice President,” Hamilton replied nonetheless, bowing politely. “And congratulations. Our country is fortunate to have so qualified and esteemed a gentleman as yourself in one of our highest offices.”

Adams’s scowl seemed only to deepen. Hamilton had heard his poor showing in the electoral college had wounded his pride, and Hamilton couldn’t exactly blame him. He’d expected the venerable lawyer turned wartime diplomat to rival Washington for votes, and he’d been shocked to see how tight the race for the vice presidency had actually been. Had he known Adams would be hurting so badly for votes, he never would have suggested to the few electors he knew that they withhold their votes to ensure Washington was the only candidate elected unanimously.

Hoping to lift Adams’s spirits slightly, Hamilton offered him a glass of the punch and added, “I did have the honor of meeting you once before, Mr. Adams, though I would never expect you to recall the occasion.”

Adams refused the punch, but his scowl eased to puzzlement. “What occasion was that?”

“You sat in on my natural philosophy course with Doctor Clossy at King’s College. I believe you were on your way to the Continental Congress, and you spoke to us briefly about what you expected to accomplish. I had read about your historic defense of the British soldiers after the massacre in Boston, and I always counted myself quite lucky to have shaken your hand that day.”2

“I do recall that visit to King’s,” Adams said, voice distant in memory. His scowl softened further and finally disappeared, the corner of his mouth twitching up into an approximation of a smile. “And I recall being impressed by the bright young men I met there. I’m glad to see you’ve lived up to your potential.”

“That means a great deal coming from you, sir,” Hamilton replied.

The young man at Adams’s shoulder shifted uncomfortably, prompting Adams to glance back and introduce, “My son, Charles. He’s just finished at Harvard.”

“Then congratulations are due to you as well, young Mr. Adams.”

“Thank you, sir.” Charles’s face bore a brilliant blush as he bowed first to Hamilton, then to Angelica.

“I’ve heard you’re one of the finest attorneys in New York, Mr. Hamilton,” Adams remarked. His eyes traveled over Hamilton as though sizing up his legal prowess by sight.

“Mr. Church trusts no one else with managing his interests in America,” Angelica bragged on his behalf, tapping his chest lightly with her fan.  

He smiled at her, and granted, “I’ve done well since starting my practice here in the city.”

“Charles wishes to pursue a career in the law. If you intend on remaining with your practice, I’d like to speak with you further about potentially taking him on as a student.”

Hamilton felt his own face color at the high compliment. “I’d be honored, sir. I have no intention of leaving my practice again at this time.”

Applause rose up again, louder than before and accompanied this time by huzzahs and an excited shout: “Long live our beloved President Washington!” A crowd formed around the entryway, and Hamilton could just make out Washington’s towering figure at the center of it. The poor General must be miserable, he considered, forced to be the center of so much fawning attention.

“President Washington appears to have arrived at last,” Adams observed. “Please, excuse me. I should go greet him.”

“Of course, sir,” Hamilton agreed, bowing again while Angelica executed another flawless curtsy.

Angelica leaned close to him and whispered, “I just can’t seem to escape that man, no matter how many times I cross the Atlantic.”

He tried to stifle his laugh. “Did you spend much time with him in England?”

“Too much. Mr. Jefferson was devoted to him, and insisted on inviting him along at every opportunity. His wife was pleasant enough in company, I suppose, but Mr. Adams was hardly the most sociable of creatures.”

“He seemed perfectly pleasant just now,” Hamilton whispered.

“Well, of course, with you here to soothe his ego.”

He scowled at her playfully, his best imitation of Adams’s resting expression. Angelica’s resulting laugh drew the eyes of several couples around them. He took a subtle step backwards to leave more space between them.  

“What are you two conspiring about?” A hand landed on his shoulder as his wife’s voice interrupted the conversation. He looked around and smiled. Eliza’s cheeks were bright pink from the warm room and the quick paced dances, but she was smiling and radiant in the new ivory gown she’d purchased for the occasion. 

“There you are, my angel,” he greeted, pulling her closer and offering her a glass from the table behind them. “We just met Mr. Adams. Angelica was filling me in on her acquaintance with him in London.”

“Mm,” she hummed skeptically as she raised the glass to her lips. He watched her make the same mistake he had, taking a long sip and then choking on the strong taste of alcohol. He offered her the handkerchief from his pocket and held her glass for her while she reclaimed her breath. “Oh my goodness. Thank you.”  

“I did the same thing,” he consoled her. “I wish General Knox had some water available along with the spirits. But I suppose that would run contrary to setting the proper celebratory mood.” 

“The strong punch does seem to be making for a lively gathering,” she agreed.

“With you the belle of the ball, my dear Betsey,” Angelica grinned. “Every gentleman in New York seems eager to claim you for a dance.”

Eliza scoffed a little, but then looked up at him from under her long eyelashes. “Some more than others, perhaps. One gentleman in particular has yet to ask me.”

In his defense, she’d been pulled away from him before he’d had the chance to ask.

“Pray, allow me to correct my unforgiveable oversight.” He bowed formally at the waist and held out his hand. Her nose wrinkled slightly while she pretended to consider his offer.

Dear Lord, how he loved her.

“I’d thought you’d never ask, Mr. Hamilton,” she said at last, reaching to place her punch on the table and taking his hand.

Angelica merely shook her head them.

Escorting her to the dance floor, he leaned close to whisper, “You must know, my angel, that did the rules of decorum not dictate otherwise, I would dance exclusively with you.”  

She grinned up at him. “Charmer.”

The floor was less crowded than before, with many couples having given up their places to join the general clamor around the President. Glancing over, he saw Mr. Adams had finally fought his way through to stand beside Washington. Eliza took her place aside him as the first notes of an allemande rang out.

He grinned at her. He loved this dance.

Eliza’s hand rested in his as they stepped side to side. He raised their arms so she could spin beneath his, then stooped down so that he could execute a spin beneath hers. Their hands remained linked throughout the dance as they spun and twisted around each other.

During one turn, while she faced away from him, he was meant to slid his hand down to clasp her outstretched fingers, but instead let his hand brush over her lower back and down past her bustle. She smirked as she spun back around towards him, and said, sotto voce, “Naughty boy.” When he turned in step with the other gentleman, he jumped to feel the back of her hand land boldly right on his rear and linger, so that they nearly missed the next turn.

“You’re lucky everyone here is already in their cups, Mrs. Hamilton,” he scolded with amusement.

“You started it,” she whispered back defiantly.

When the last notes faded into the surrounding applause, Hamilton squeezed Eliza’s chin gently and tapped her nose. “My saucy little minx. Have you any idea how much I adore you?”

She stretched up to place a swift kiss to his lips before she pulled away. Her hand still clasped in his, she led him back towards her sister. Angelica appeared to have attracted a swarm of admiring gentleman in their absence.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Tobias Lear called, fighting his way through the crowd towards them. He and Eliza both paused. “The President would like a word with you, if convenient.”

He craned his neck around to see Washington still floating in the middle of an adoring mass of admirers. “Now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eliza released his hand. “Find me when you’re done. The fireworks are due to start soon.”

He nodded, and turned to follow Lear through the thickening crowd. Adams was still standing on one side of Washington, and Knox stood on the other, while everyone else jostled to try to get closer to the man of the hour. Lear had to all but elbow people aside as they drew closer.

“Would you please excuse me?” Washington requested when he spotted Lear and Hamilton making their way towards him. “I’d like a word with Mr. Hamilton.”

The sea of people parted around Washington as he moved, and he jerked his head to indicate Hamilton should follow him. “Come, my boy. General Knox offered the use of his private office.”

They turned down a corridor to the private part of the house, and Washington preceded him into Knox’s office. Hamilton closed the door behind him, muting the din of music and laughter from the front hall. Washington sank into one of the chairs near the desk with a heavy sigh, and gestured for Hamilton to join him. “Sit, sit, my boy.”

“Did you need something in particular, sir?” he asked, confused, as he sat tentatively across from the President. 

“I merely wanted a reprieve from the press of the crowd,” Washington explained. “I’ve not had a moment to myself since I rose this morning.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected, sir, on such a momentous occasion.”

Washington grunted. “I had hoped to see you at Federal Hall.”

“That didn’t seem appropriate, sir. I’m no longer a member of Congress, and I have no other formal position with the government. I watched you take the oath from my terrace with Eliza and the children. My little Philip was particularly excited. Eliza doesn’t usually permit him to yell, but she gave him special permission to shout ‘God bless President Washington and the United States’ during the ceremony. He seized the opportunity with gusto. I still can’t hear properly out of my right ear.”

Washington shook with the closed lipped laugh that denoted real amusement.

“He and my young Washy will get on well, I think.”

Hamilton nodded agreeably.

“I must admit, I do have something of consequence I wished to speak to you about,” Washington said. His face turned serious as he sat forward. “I suppose you’ve heard that Robert Morris does not intend to stay on at the treasury department.”

Rumors to that effect had been circulating for a while, so Hamilton couldn’t claim any true surprise. “I had heard that, sir. Are you considering Chancellor Livingston as his replacement?” he asked curiously.

“Perhaps,” Washington said. “However, I asked Mr. Morris yesterday who he thought the best man to replace him would be, and he gave me an unexpected answer.”

“Who did he recommend, sir? Perhaps I know him?”

“Yes, I believe you do.” Washington’s lip twitched upwards. “He told me there is but one man in the United States who can do the job, better even than him. Imagine my surprise when he named my former aide-de-camp, Colonel Alexander Hamilton.”

He sat back in his chair, stunned. “Me?”

“Do you believe you’d be up to the task?”

“I…” he hesitated. He’d been studying finance for years, drafting plans to save the country from financial collapse even when he was still in the army. He smiled, recalling the night so many years ago when he’d forced Eliza to stay up with him to help him copy his marathon first letter to Robert Morris, articulating his thoughts on economic policy. “I certainly have ideas on what should be done, sir, but….”

He’d seen the constitution through ratification. That was supposed to be the end of it. Eliza’s patience for his political whims was wearing thin, he knew, especially after this winter, when he’d engaged in an all-out war of words with Clinton’s political lackeys in an attempt to oust the uncouth Governor from his seat of power.3

Washington nodded. “I understand if you need time to think it over. It would be no small undertaking, and you’d have to give up your private practice in favor of a reduced government salary.”

“Yes. I’ll have to speak with Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Of course,” Washington agreed. “Take your time. Mr. Morris will continue to manage the most urgent business in the interim, and I still have the position at State to fill as well. I don’t suppose you have any recommendations on that front?”

Sadly, a name did jump immediately to mind. Jack. How perfect it would have been, he and Jack, side by side, forging the nation’s domestic and foreign policies. If only….

He swallowed. “No, sir.”

Washington studied him for a long moment. “Were you thinking of Colonel Laurens just now?”

His eyes widened. How had he known?

“I thought of him, too, as soon as Mr. Morris recommended you for the treasury position. His loss is still keenly felt by all who knew him, but I imagine outside his family the blow came hardest to you and our dear Marquis.”

Hamilton’s gaze fell to the floor, his throat tight and vision slightly blurred. “I do my best to serve the country the way I know he would have, but he left a hole too big for me to fill on my own. His unwavering morals and tremendous courage would have set us on the best and most righteous path, of that I have no doubt. And whatever I may do to try to mitigate his absence, I fear the damage his loss rendered to the country is irreparable.”  

Washington’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and warm. He offered no platitudes or meaningless words of consolation; only the solid weight of his hand, and the knowledge at least someone else understood how history had been altered for the worse on that fateful, terrible day in September. After a long moment of silence to remember what might have been, they both rose and made their way back into the celebration and the world as it was.

Most of the guests had moved outside when they re-entered the main room, and Washington was immediately swept away to join the crowds. Hamilton moved more slowly, his mind churning with both grief and possibilities for the future. Near the door, apart from the crowds, he spotted Eliza waiting patiently for him.

“Hello, stranger,” she greeted softly as he approached. She seemed to sense the change in his mood, because without him having to say a word, she opened her arms and wrapped him into a tight, comforting embrace. “Do you want to go home?”

He nodded against her.

Her hand traced down along the length of his spine. “All right, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

A sharp whistle preceded a loud explosion just as he began to pull away, and he startled violently, gripping at Eliza’s waist as if to brace her. Her hands had moved from his back to his shoulders, and her fingers kneaded his tense muscles while her thumbs stroked over his collarbone on either side. “Just fireworks,” she whispered.

He forced himself to relax. No matter how many celebrations and Fourth of July displays he made himself attend, the sound of that first firework never failed to transport him back to Yorktown, waiting on that hill in the darkness for the rocket to signal their attack. Eliza pulled him close again as the next whistle filled the air.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

With her in his arms, nothing ever seemed so terrible.

When they pulled apart again, Eliza placed her hand in his. Together, they set out through the doorway, Eliza tugging him along through the crowds towards the sidewalk. “Shouldn’t we find Angelica?” he called in the wake of another explosion, the bright light still lingering in the night sky.

She stopped and leaned close so he could hear her better. “She reunited with some old acquaintances of hers earlier. She’s staying with them for evening.”

“Oh.” He nodded, and gestured for her to keep going.

The crowds thinned slightly as they moved away from Knox’s residence, though all of New York seemed to be awake and celebrating this evening. People still lingered in the streets, making it impossible for carriages to move, and music and laughter seemed to emanate from every home they walked past. Candles in windows lit transparent images of Washington, throwing his likeness onto the street every few feet they walked. The noise of the fireworks grew fainter as they turned towards Wall Street, though the bright colors lighting up the sky were still visible.

They walked quietly, their hands clasped together, all the way back to their townhouse. Their windows were aglow with Washington’s image just like every other house on their street. Eliza had hung the transparencies this morning while he’d been peeking outside at the crowds gathering in front of their house.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he squeezed Eliza’s hand to get her attention.

“Pip will be happy we’re home. We should take him the other little ones out to watch the fireworks before they go to sleep,” she commented, though she’d paused in her progress towards the steps.  

“Betsey?”  

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In late March, an attack by “William Tell” appeared in the newspaper implying for the first time that Hamilton was guilty of infidelity. The root of the rumors was likely Hamilton's close relationship with Angelica, who had just arrived from England. (Though I firmly don't believe Ham and Angelica ever had an affair, their flirtation caused a lot of gossip to start swirling around.)  
> 2\. One of my favorite details that I picked up in Michael E. Newton's Alexander Hamilton: The Formative Years. Apparently, Adams toured King's College in 1774, and made a specific mention of sitting in on a class that Hamilton was signed up for. Neither of them ever mentioned it, and it's possible Ham wasn't in class that day, but if nothing else it drives home the age difference between the two men.  
> 3\. See “H.G. Letters” series written by Hamilton between February and April 1789. Ham was attacking Clinton as part of an attempt to help Yates beat Clinton in the gubernatorial race. 
> 
> Inauguration day at last! I did crush some events together in time, but Adams did ask Hamilton to take his son, Charles, on as a student, and the conversation Washington had with Robert Morris recommending Hamilton for treasury would have been around this time as well.


	11. Eliza, February 1790

**February 1790**

“Unhand the princess, you blackguard, or prepare to meet the Almighty!” Pip shouted, his voice muffled by the makeshift puppet theater he was currently crouched behind. The white of his shirt cuff peeked out from beneath his puppet as he adjusted beneath the window.

“Oh, please, save me, brave knight!” Nelly Custis cried dramatically, throwing wide the hands of her puppet as her brother Washy forced his knight in front of her.

Washy declared, “Why should I fight, when I have my dragon to defend me!”

A pause followed, and Eliza heard Angelica prod in an urgent whisper, “Fanny.”

“I want to be the princess,” Fanny whined.

“You’re the dragon,” Angelica said, her knight disappearing from behind Pip’s. “That’s the best part.”

“It is?” Fanny sounded highly skeptical.

“Yeah,” Pip added encouragingly. “This is the most exciting part of the show.”

Eliza glanced to the side and met Mrs. Washington’s eye, and the two shared a look of amusement. All the guests had gathered in the front parlor of the President’s Cherry Street residence after dinner to watch the children’s show. Well, all the guests but two.

The dragon puppet finally appeared behind Washy’s knight. Fanny gave a growl fierce as a newborn kitten as she lunged towards Pip’s knight. Pip quickly affixed a little wooden stick to his puppet’s hand to fight off the attack.

Baron Von Steuben lifted his hands from his protruding belly to clap with merriment at the ensuing battle. President Washington and the other assembled guests all looked similarly amused. All but Mr. Adams, who watched on with a sour scowl. The only thing keeping him in his seat, as far as Eliza could tell, was his wife’s hand resting on his knee. Mrs. Adams patted at her husband’s leg fondly, even as she cocked her head towards the door, clearly trying the listen to the argument in the next room.

“Jemmy, please,” she heard Alexander pleading. His voice was strained.

Madison responded, the slow cadence of his southern drawl audible, though he spoke too low to make out his words. Her husband’s voice softened in response, their conversation returning to the dull murmur that had underscored the whole puppet show. She’d not been the only one to hear the distress in her husband’s voice, however, because President Washington rose immediately, mumbling his apologies as he stepped from the room. A few of the young ladies who had been honored with an invitation watched him adoringly as he exited.

Mrs. Adams rose as well. She crossed the aisle and sat in the conspicuously empty seat next to Eliza. Forcing herself to smile warmly, Eliza tried not to feel intimidated by the savvy and elegant older woman.

“I do hope all is well between Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Madison,” Mrs. Adams whispered, leaning close in a confiding manner.

“I assure you, Mrs. Adams, that my husband and Mr. Madison are the greatest of friends. They are simply in the midst of a…political misunderstanding,” Eliza replied diplomatically.

In fact, she knew exactly what the two men were arguing about, and it had little to do with a misunderstanding. When Alexander had released his first budget along with his Report on Public Credit, he’d been counting on Madison’s support. Instead, Madison turned out to be his biggest opponent. Her poor husband had taken the betrayal to heart.   

“Mm,” Mrs. Adams hummed.

Her gaze held a sharpness that reminded Eliza of a predator who’d sensed wounded prey. It was no wonder that Mr. Adams had advanced so far in politics, Eliza considered. She had to fight down the raging insecurity that always threatened, when she considered that Mrs. Adams was exactly the sort of woman she ought to emulate if she wanted to help her husband advance in his chosen career.

“Fanny, we stabbed you already,” Angelica hissed from behind the cabinet.

Fanny seemed to have come around to liking the part of dragon, because despite taking several whacks from Pip and Angelica’s wooden swords, she kept roaring and bobbing her puppet. Pip gave the dragon another whack, and Angelica finally forced Fanny’s hand down. The dragon disappeared to great applause.

“Oh no!” Washy cried, making his knight appear to run away.

They all chuckled.

“The dragon is defeated,” Pip announced grandly. “You’re safe, now, princess.”

“Oh, thank you, brave knight!” Nelly said, pressing her puppet’s face against Pip’s as though she were bestowing a kiss.

They all applauded again as the children emerged from behind the cabinet to take their bows. Pip looked over at her, and she saw him frown when he didn’t see his father beside her. She forced another smile, clapped harder, and called out, “Bravo.”

His lips quirked up at the sides, and he gave a grand bow just for her.

As they all rose from their seats, she saw President Washington return to the parlor with Alexander. Madison was nowhere in sight. Before she could go to her husband, however, Mrs. Washington had caught her elbow.

“What a delightful diversion,” Mrs. Washington remarked, her plump face warm and open.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Knox added, coming to join them with a jovial smile and her husband in tow. “The children are all so talented. Especially your young Philip.” 

“Thank you Mrs. Knox,” Eliza smiled, some of the anxiety that had sprouted from speaking with Mrs. Adams fading under the motherly wings of the two older ladies. “They all did marvelously. I’m only sorry our little Alex had to miss it.”

“How’s his cold, the poor dear?” Mrs. Washington queried.

“Oh, he’s recovering nicely, but he’s still sniffling and coughing enough that I didn’t want him out in this cold weather. He was far from pleased at having to stay home with our youngest, though.”

Mrs. Washington hummed sympathetically. “Remind me before you leave to give you some of my cure-all. Young Wash was back in his feet in a day when he caught cold last week.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She conversed for several more minutes, waiting for a polite moment to excuse herself from the conversation to seek out her husband. When she finally did escape, she spotted Alexander at the center of another circle. That seemed to happen naturally with him, she thought. People always gravitated towards him, like moths to a flame.

She stood back, observing him from the outside of the tight circle.

Whatever upset he’d suffered from his argument with Madison hadn’t dimmed his charm or wit for the party, apparently, given the good humor shining in the eyes of those around him. She wasn’t surprised. He thrived on having an audience, his personality adapting to what would most please the crowd around him. Several of the young ladies who’d been watching the President adoringly were now fixed on him, grinning with anticipation as he told some tale or other—likely from the war, given his gestures towards Von Steuben beside him.

“Betsey! There you  are,” Alexander called. He sounded slightly hoarse to her ear, but he grinned and beckoned her over. “I was just telling these young ladies about our old winter dancing assemblies during the war.”

“Were you, now?” she asked, wrapping her arm around his. The young ladies’ fawning grins seemed to dull as Eliza took her place at his side. With his prominent position, high cheekbones, and firm jaw, Alexander was increasingly the subject of much female admiration. She couldn’t exactly blame them, she thought, gazing up at him fondly.

“Of course, no ball quite compared to the February gathering in Morristown, when I first asked you for a dance,” he said, expression soft as he met her eye.

“I asked you,” she corrected. “After I saved you from catching your death by standing out in the cold all night.”

His grin grew wider, though he had to cover his mouth to cough roughly into his fist, as though illustrating the very cold she’d save him from years earlier. She frowned slightly with concern, but he waved her off. When he’d caught his breath, he agreed, “You’re right, of course. My darling wife.”

She squeezed his arm lightly.

They mingled a bit longer, but it became increasingly obvious that Alexander was the latest to fall victim to the miserable cold sweeping through their family. His cough became more frequent, and his voice grew rougher as he spoke. Finally, Eliza intervened, suggesting, “Dearest, shouldn’t we be getting home? To look in on Alex?”

The reminder of their sick little boy was enough to secure his agreement, and they said their goodbyes as they collected their other little ones. Mrs. Washington had her wait an extra moment while she sent a servant for the bottle of cure-all she favored, and Eliza promised to give a dose to Alex as soon as they got home. Alexander frowned at the label as they left, in way that made her sure the medicine would go to waste—he was very particular in the treatments he administered to the children.

When they’d settled into the coach for the drive home, Eliza saw the illusion of energy melt away from her husband. His face grew drawn and his eyes shadowed as they set off towards home. Fanny was cuddled up against her on her lap, while Pip and Angelica talked excitedly about their show.

“I just don’t understand why Jemmy is being so obstinate,” Alexander complained to her over their children’s chatter. He paused to cough wetly into his handkerchief. “He’s known my plans since we were first in Congress.”

“Well, perhaps he feels duty bound to object, given his new role. He is the representative for Virginia,” she suggested. She tried to give the Virginian the benefit of the doubt, if only for Alexander’s sake.

“Papa,” Philip interjected. He was bouncing excitedly in his seat.

“He was the representative from Virginia before, too. I don’t understand what’s changed. What’s good for the country is good for Virginia, and I know that he knows that,” Alexander insisted.

“Papa,” Philip said again.

“Perhaps he’s changed his opinion since being home,” Eliza replied.

“Well, he’s wrong.”

“Papa.”

She shushed Pip while she fought not to roll her eyes. He wasn’t wrong, but that attitude wasn’t going to get him very far with Madison. “You keep telling him that, sweetheart.”

“I will.”

“Papa.”

“What?” Alexander snapped, harsh and biting.

The coach went silent, both Eliza and the children dumbfounded at the unusual show of temper. Pip had shrunk back in his seat and leaned against her. His eyes were glued to the rough carpet of the coach floor.

“Alexander,” she scolded in a whisper, wrapping her arm around Pip.

Alexander took a breath. “I’m sorry, Pip. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But you shouldn’t interrupt like that when Mama and I are speaking.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he mumbled, hiding his face against his mother’s side.

“What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Pip shrugged.

“Pip,” Alexander sighed. He reached out to tousle his son’s hair. When Pip finally peeked out at him, she watched Alexander paste on a smile. “Come now. What is it?”  

“I wanted to tell you about our show, since you didn’t get to watch it,” Pip said.

Alexander smiled more genuinely. “I would love to hear about your show.”

And just like that, all was forgiven. Pip and Angelica began enthusiastically describing the plot of their show, with Fanny adding in her adorable little dragon roar. Even as he nodded, Eliza noted that he had the faraway look in his eye that indicated his mind was miles away from his family.

**

A great sneeze echoed in the stairway as Eliza licked her finger to turn the page of the book she’d been reading aloud to little Alex. She set the book in her lap and frowned at the doorway. Another sneeze, louder this time, preceded the unmistakable martial rhythm of her husband’s footfalls mounting the rest of the stairs.

“Papa,” Alex croaked happily, pushing himself up in the bed and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of his elusive parent. His little nose was bright red from his own sneezing fits, Eliza noticed, as she reached out to smooth down his unruly cowlick.

 “How’s my little lamb?” Alexander asked from the doorway, a distinct phlegmy quality audible in his voice. His face looked gray in the candlelight.

Alex held his arms out to his father, and Alexander obliged him, settling on the side of the bed so the little boy could crawl over and curl up in his lap.

“You sound worse,” Eliza said.

He waved off her concern again and pressed a kiss to Alex’s forehead. “No fever, right?”

“He’s been cool all day. Just sneezy and run down, like the rest of us were.”

“Good. That’s good. We don’t like fevers, do we?”

Alex shook his head agreeably as he melted into his father’s embrace. “Sing, Papa.”

“I don’t think I can sing, my sweet boy,” Alexander said apologetically. “I have a frog in my throat tonight.”

Alex pushed up off his father to look at him curiously. “Really?”

Alexander nodded.

“Can I see?”

Alexander laughed and opened his mouth. Alex rested his forefinger on his father’s lower teeth so he could peer down his throat. His little brow furrowed as he squinted.

“Do you see it?” Eliza asked fondly.

“Um, yeah.”

“You do?” Alexander asked, his mouth still open and his brows raised in amusement.

“Uh-huh.” Curiosity sated, apparently, Alex plopped back down in his father’s lap.

 Alexander made a gulping noise, then said, “Oh no.”

Eliza asked, “What?”

He winked at her and began to wiggle around in a silly manner.

“I think I swallowed the frog.” Alex giggled while Alexander laid Alex’s palm against his stomach. “It’s dancing around in my belly. Feel it?”

Alex giggled harder and nodded. All the laughing seemed to agitate his sinuses, though, and his giggles turned into a peculiar combination of sneezing and coughing. He gave a frustrated whine as he rubbed at his sore, red nose with the sleeve of his nightshirt.

“My poor little darling,” Alexander cooed. “Let me see if I can find you some medicine. At least something to help you sleep.”

With a kiss to the boy’s forehead, Alexander settled him back properly in his bed and rose. Addressing her, he added, “I’ll be just a moment.”

She nodded, and adjusted her chair closer to the bed so she could continue Alex’s story for him. After turning the page in the story book, she held it up so Alex could see the illustration. As Alex leaned forward to examine the two dancing mice on the page, Eliza heard a loud crash and the sound of ceramics breaking.

 Placing the book on the bed, she hastened into the hall, expecting to see one of the children standing over a mess. Instead, she found her husband crouched over a toppled decorative table, pieces of a ceramic vase and the dried flowers it had once displayed scattered around him. He had his head in his hands.

“Sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry.” He glanced up at her. “I just had a sudden wave of vertigo. I meant to use the table to regain my balance, but I accidentally knocked it over.”

 “That’s all right,” she assured him, urging him up. “I’ll clear it. Why don’t you go lie down?”

“After I get Alex’s medicine.”  

“I’ll go get it.” If he was too dizzy to manage the hallway, she shuddered to think of him trying to walk down their narrow stairs. “It’s the same you gave to Pip and Fanny, right?”

He nodded, coughing weakly.

“All right. Come on, let’s get you to bed. You need a good night’s rest.”

“I suppose you’re right, as always,” he agreed. He paid her a little smile, then turned his head to sneeze into the sleeve of his banyan. “Ugh, this is terrible.”

“I know, honey.” She’d had it herself a few weeks ago. Alexander had been placing the finishing touches on his report and re-checking his math in the proposed budget for most of that time, but he’d been tender and attentive whenever he escaped from his office. “It’s always worse at night. Lots of rest is the only thing for it.”

When she saw him settled in their bed, she returned to the hallway and began sweeping the pieces of the broken vase into her apron.

**

The bed shifted.

Eliza rolled over and peeled her eyes open. Alexander was sitting up in the bed beside her. “Honey?” she asked, voice rough with sleep. “Are you all right?”

He croaked, “I had a nightmare.”

His breathing sounded labored. When she reached out to touch him, she felt fine tremors wracking his frame. Worry coursed through her. She made herself sit up.

 “Would you get me some water? I…I don’t think I can get up.”

“Of course.” She swung her legs over the bed and lit a candle. When she looked back, she saw Alexander’s eyes looked glassy, and his cheeks bore a distinct reddish hue.  She reached out to touch his cheek and hissed. “I think you have a fever.”

“I feel horrible.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She caressed his cheek gently and ran her hand through his hair before rising from the bed to get his water. As she poured the water from the pitcher into one of the cups they kept in the room, he sneezed several times in a row, so loudly she worried he’d wake the children.

“Eugh,” he growled, reaching out blindly for the handkerchief on his nightstand.

While he blew his nose, she returned with the cup, leaving it within his reach on the nightstand. “Here, honey.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words nearly lost in the linen handkerchief still pressed to his face. He tossed the crumpled linen back onto the nightstand and took a long drink of the water. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he grumbled, “I don’t understand it. No one else had a fever with this.”

She understood it perfectly well, she thought, as she settled back into bed beside him. His health followed a predictable pattern. He worked himself to the brink of exhaustion, came down with a terrible illness, ended up bedridden for days or weeks, and once he’d recovered, he started the cycle all over again.

Rather than point this out to him, she simply suggested, “You’ve been working so hard lately, your defenses probably aren’t as strong as ours.”

He grunted and settled back against the pillows.

She blew out the candle. Rolling towards him, she wrapped her arm around his waist to draw him close. With him cuddled against her, she asked, “What did you dream about?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just when she thought he might have fallen asleep, he finally said, “The hurricane.” She squeezed him tighter. “It felt so real. The silky sand beneath my feet, the blinding rain pelting my face, all those bodies, all those _people_ , strewn across the beach.”

It made sense, in a way. Not only was the anniversary of his mother’s death fast approaching, a time of year that never failed the leave him solemn and introspective about his boyhood, but he’d also been spending a great deal of time working to set up lighthouses and a coastal guard to protect the ships bound for American ports (and discourage privateering besides). Statistics of storms and shipwrecks were foremost in his mind, and were surely enough to conjure fever dreams of his tragic past.

“You’re safe now,” she said. It felt inadequate, but she was unsure how best to comfort him.

“I know,” he sighed.

She sought out his lips in the darkness and kissed him softly.

 “I wish I never agreed to this,” he mumbled.  

“Agreed to what, honey?”

“The appointment. Taking over the Treasury. This is…it’s too much.”

“Sweetheart.”

 “I never see you. Or the children. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“And even after months of meetings and feedback, crafting a plan to set our country on a sound financial footing, I can’t even get my closest friends to agree to see it through Congress.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“How could Jemmy change his mind so much?” His voice sounded tight as he spoke about Madison, and combined with his cold, she likely would have been able to hear him if he weren’t speaking in her ear.

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her hand over his back, considering how to respond. She wasn’t sure if this was the fever talking, or his heartbreak over Madison’s treachery. Half of her wanted to shake him, to scream, yes, yes, of course it was a mistake to take this thankless job. The other half understood that he was committed to this task, now, and he needed encouragement more than an I-told-you-so.

The moment he’d told her he was taking the job stood out in her memory so vividly, the sound of the fireworks bursting faintly in the background, the feeling of Alexander’s hand in her hand. “We need to talk,” he’d said, his face serious. She’d known then, without him having to say a word.

Fire danced in his eyes as he told her about Washington’s offer. “I can do this,” he’d told her. “I can make a difference; I can lay a strong foundation so that our country can flourish for centuries to come. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to make my mark on history.”

Her throat had swelled as he’d explained. This was his dream, to be remembered throughout the ages for his heroism and brilliance, like the great statesmen of old. And to be handed the chance, and at only thirty-two, was a tremendous honor. She knew that, she understood.

 _But what about us?_ she’d wanted to demand. _What about me?_ He looked so proud of himself for coming to her with this, the way she’d asked after all those countless fights before, but he still didn’t seem to understand. He wasn’t really asking for her input. He’d already decided. She could see it in his eyes.

Mrs. Washington had confessed that her new position made her feel less like the first lady of the nation, and more like the first prisoner. Eliza understood that feeling all too well. Younger and bred for society, she could handle all the events and the dinners. She just wished she didn’t have to manage so many of them alone.

She nuzzled her nose against his to get his attention. “Honey, you’re sick, and feverish, and very stressed right now. Once we get you well again, I have no doubt that you’ll find a way to bring Mr. Madison back around.”

“Yeah?” He sounded small and uncertain.

“Mr. Jefferson will be arriving soon. Perhaps he’ll intervene on your behalf. He’s close to Mr. Madison, and Angelica spoke so highly of him, I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

She felt him nod against her.

“That’s settled then. You just need to take some time to rest and let yourself recover. All right?”

“All right.”  

He relaxed in her arms, and soon the sounds of his congested snores filled the room.

**

Alexander was still curled up in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin, while she rose to see to the household the next morning. Alex looked much the same, curled up on his side and snoring quietly when she checked on him. After breakfast, she readied the other children for church quietly as possible, and kissed Alexander on the cheek before she left, leaving a fresh cup of water nearby so he could drink if he was thirsty later. His eyelids fluttered as she’d said goodbye, but he never really woke.

When they returned mid-morning, she tip-toed upstairs to look in on her sick boys again. She was shocked to find Alex’s bed empty. A sneeze loud as a trumpet call told her that her husband, at least, was where she’d left him. Looking into the master bedroom, she found Alex now curled up beside his father, sleeping soundly, while Hamilton sat up with a stack of papers in hand. He was blowing his nose loudly when she stopped in the doorway.

His eyes had the same glassy quality as the night before, and she could still see fever spots on his cheeks. She shook her head. “You need to be resting,” she scolded.

“I am resting,” he replied shortly.

She approached him and plucked the paper out of his hand.

“Eliza,” he protested.

“Reviewing terms for lighthouse contractors is not resting.” He scowled as she took the papers away. “The world won’t end if you take a day to recover.”

 “No, but the economy might collapse.” He didn’t quite snap at her, but he sounded on edge. Her tender and affectionate husband had the tendency to grow exceptionally grumpy when ill, and today seemed no exception.

She kissed the top of his head, and teased, “I have nothing approaching your genius when it comes to finance, but I find it rather hard to believe that waiting until Monday to select the new repair crew will somehow result in an economic panic.”

He coughed, then gave her a baleful look. After a beat, he admitted, “I was bored. I needed something to think about other than how achy and awful I feel.”

That sounded more likely.

“I’m sure something other than contract terms can distract you,” she said. “What about a novel? That would be less taxing.”

“My head hurts too much to read,” he complained.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Is there any chance you’re being contrary just to be contrary?”

“No.”

“So reviewing contracts doesn’t require reading?”

“No,” he repeated stubbornly, although she saw a smile start to tug at his lips. “And don’t laugh at me. I’m sick.”

Considering a moment, a thought occurred to her. She smiled, and encouraged, “Lie back and relax. I’ll be just a moment.”

Hurrying down the stairs, she found Pip, Angelica, Fanny, and Jamie all playing in the front parlor under Sarah’s supervision. “Papa was looking for some entertainment. How would you like to stage another performance of your puppet show for him and Alex?”

Their eyes lit up with excitement.

“We don’t have the right puppets, though,” Pip said.

The knights, princess, and dragon all belonged to the Washington children, but Eliza just smiled. “I’m sure we’ll find something in your toys to suit.”

Sure enough, within fifteen minutes the children were ready with stand-in dolls, puppets, and a ratty old stuffed rabbit that was to be the dragon. Jamie brought in one of his toy soldiers, and zoomed around the room with it, although the flying soldier didn’t seem to relate to the plot in any way. Alex woke up while his siblings were getting ready, and he bounced on the bed with excitement to be able to see the show after all, even if he still wasn’t well enough to participate.

Eliza sat on the bed beside Alexander, and let him lean back against her, his head resting on her chest contentedly while the children crouched at the foot of the bed and put on their show.

When the princess was supposed to say her line, a long pause followed.

“Fanny,” Angelica hissed. “You’re the princess.”

“I want to be the dragon. The dragon’s the best part,” Fanny whined.

Alexander laughed while Angelica huffed, and apparently took the doll from her sister to switch parts. Eliza glanced down and saw him completely present and engrossed with the children’s presentation. Resting her chin on his head, she sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a longer chapter this time...Things are starting to fall apart between Jemmy and Ham. It's sad reading their correspondence around this time, because Hamilton is so clearly to still friendly with him and asking for advice, yet Madison has turned against him. Jefferson was sworn in as Secretary of State in March, and we all know how that ends :)
> 
> Washington's grandchildren and Hamilton's children did often play together, and even put on puppet shows together for guests. Eliza and Martha Washington spent a great deal of time together, and I'd argue their relationship went far in cementing Hamilton and Washington's partnership. Eliza's thought about Mrs. Washington feeling like the first prisoner of the state comes from an interview Eliza gave with Benton J. Lossing in 1848.


	12. Hamilton, February 1791

**February 1791**

“If we were to gift France such a benefit, especially one not called for in the treaty, as we both agree, where would we get the funds to offset the expected income?” Hamilton argued to John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, using his fork to emphasize his point. “Retiring the public debt requires income, and exempting one of our largest trading partners from the tonnage tax would put a sizable hole in the nation’s pocket.”1

Jefferson frowned and raised his wine glass to his lips. Where Hamilton expected a rebuttal, only a long silence followed. Hamilton swallowed down the inclination to say more, conscious not to give too much away.

“As trustees of the sinking fund, I do believe we must heed Mr. Hamilton’s advice on this account, Thomas,” Adams responded finally. “Congress has tasked us with reducing the public debt, and an exemption for France would run counter to that duty.”

Jefferson gave a noncommittal nod, which seemed to signal less his acquiescence to their arguments, and more a desire to move on to a new topic. They’d assembled at Mr. Jefferson’s new Philadelphia lodgings to discuss the sinking fund, specifically, however, and the three men had little else about which to converse. Given what a wily opponent Jefferson had proven himself to be over the past year, Hamilton had little desire to share current news or plans.

The sound of cutlery scraping against fine china seemed unusually loud in the awkward silence that followed. Adams turned his attention to his plate, slicing the cut of beef before him with great concentration. Jefferson’s gaze focused straight ahead on the window, unfazed by the tense moment where Hamilton would have been scrambling for a topic of conversation were he the host of this gathering.  

Eliza never would have let such a tense silence endure.

Hamilton wished she were with him.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, Mr. Hamilton,” Adams remarked. “For the passage of your banking bill. President Washington signed it today, did he not?”

Jefferson’s jaw tensed noticeably. When Adams raised a glass to him, Jefferson pointedly set his down upon the table. Hamilton fought a vindictive smile as he replied, “He did. Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

Not without a hard won fight, however. Jefferson and Jemmy had collaborated against him, filling the President’s mind with doubts over the constitutionality of the National Bank. His mind still felt fuzzy from the sleepless nights he’d spent crafting his defense. Eliza, bless her, had stayed at his side that last night, when he’d despaired of ever finishing. She’d copied the pages he’d scribbled and scratched over, her boundless optimism a beacon in the churning sea of his thoughts. What would he do without her, his darling angel?2

“I did my utmost to keep harmony in the Senate during that debate,” Adams continued. “I trust you know best, Mr. Hamilton, though I confess I do sympathize with the position of our more Southern colleagues. The bank will surely benefit the North far more than the South. Not to mention the money men who shall make out best are, in my estimation, little better than swindlers and thieves.”

Now Hamilton’s jaw tensed.

“What America surely needs is less banks and more farmers,” Jefferson agreed. “Financial speculation will never yield the virtuous citizenry a republic requires to function. Cities and industry provide just so much to the support of pure government as sores do to the strength of the human body.3 Our farms are the bastion of a free society.”

One of Jefferson’s servants paused beside him to refill his wine glass as he spoke. Hamilton’s gaze drifted up to the enslaved man, whose face was fixed into a blank expression of placid obedience. Had he choked down a derisive laugh at that statement? Hamilton wondered.  

The South was as much a bastion of free society as Saint Croix, he badly wanted to retort. The plantation systems that flourished in societies arranged around cash crops were the very antithesis of a republic, which was meant to be organized around merit. How well he remembered the violence and cruelty that abounded on the plantations, and the rigid hierarchy that ruined his father and would have condemned him to the groveling state of a clerk for the rest of his days. Was that truly Jefferson’s ideal? Or was he simply blind to the failings of a system that had gifted him so much privilege?     

“I’ve not found that to be so,” Hamilton settled on as the most diplomatic reply. “I think, rather, that a diverse economy is the best way to open the door to all, that each may have the opportunity  to rise above the disadvantages of his birth and command the tribute due to his merit.”4 That’s what he was working towards, the vision he conjured when his eyes blurred in the wee hours of the morning as he reviewed endless contracts, tables, and charts.

Jefferson frowned again. Another noncommittal nod followed, signaling the end of the topic. How maddening it was, to debate with a man who refused to argue his position.

Another tense silence filled the room.

Hunting for a new point of conversation, anything less controversial to carry them through to the end of this interminable meal, Hamilton’s eyes landed on the portraits of three men Jefferson had hanging in his dining room. Bacon, Newton, and Locke, he identified. Surely science and philosophy would be safer ground than their competing political visions?

“Pray tell me, Mr. Jefferson, why you have the portraits of those particular three gentleman displayed?” he inquired, pasting on a smile.

Jefferson cleared his throat and launched into what could only be described as a lecture, and a dry one at that.

Hamilton pushed a green bean through the sauce on his plate idly. The food was delicious—Jefferson’s meals always were, his dinners like pomegranate seeds meant to trap the unwary into perpetually returning to his lair—but he found he had little appetite. All the late hours and opulent dinners had been taking a toll on his waistline, such that he’d had to have his breeches let out last month. Angelica’s latest letter had been proof that his expanding girth had not gone unnoticed.

He’d known something was off when Eliza refused to share Angelica’s latest letter with him. Regardless of to whom the letter was addressed, the first to lay hand on it always read it aloud for the benefit of the other. This time, however, Eliza had stuffed it into her sewing kit and put him off whenever he inquired about it.

“It’s silly, girlish nonsense,” Eliza had argued, patting him on the cheek fondly. “Nothing that would interest you.”

On the contrary, having it hidden away from him interested him greatly in the contents. He’d sneaked it out from under a pair of Pip’s socks when she’d had her back turned and cast his eyes over his dear friend's words. “…[O]ur dear Hamilton writes too much and takes no exercise and grows too fat. I hate both the words and the thing and you will take care of his health and good looks. Why, I shall find him on my return a dull, heavy fellow.”5

“Please don’t give it a moment’s thought. You look wonderful, sweetheart. Very handsome,” Eliza had tried to console him.

He’d taken pains to restrict his diet ever since, nonetheless.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Hamilton?”

He blinked and refocused on Jefferson, who had fixed him with his intense, studying gaze. Apparently the great Professor had come to the end of his lesson. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jefferson,” he apologized, shifting in his seat. “I’m afraid I was miles away.”

“Do you agree that Bacon, Newton, and Locke are the three greatest men who ever lived?” Jefferson repeated for him.

A bold claim. He didn’t disagree, really. But he wanted to, if for no other reason than to throw Jefferson off guard.

A long ago, late night flashed through his memory, a campfire crackling while he, Lafayette, Laurens, and Mac had huddled round. “Why does Alexander get to be great?” Jack had asked to no one in particular.  

“I’m not great; I’m just better than you,” Hamilton had jested. Jack had elbowed him in the ribs.

“I mean it. Why do we call him Alexander the Great? Who determines which men will have fame that lasts through the centuries? His deeds weren’t necessarily noble; he didn’t fight for freedom or justice. Just conquest.”

Jack had worried about that frequently. Fame. Glory. A name that would be remembered throughout history; remembered for the right reasons.

“The same reason Caesar is remembered. They were conquerors. Heroes in their own time,” Lafayette had observed with a careless shrug.

“You think we’ll be the conquering heroes of our time?” Jack had asked, looking at him.

“You two? Of course. Our very own Caesar and Alexander,” Mac had interjected.6

A smile tugged at Hamilton’s lips as the memory washed over him. He longed for the simple camaraderie of the war, when the enemy was clear and the goal unquestioned. Oh, what better answer could he give?

Arranging his features into a serious expression, he replied, “The greatest man who ever lived was Julius Caesar.”7

The utter shock on Jefferson’s face forced Hamilton to cover his mouth with his napkin, feigning a cough to cover the his laughter. He’d pay for making such a comment, of that he had no doubt. Oh, but the expression on the unflappable Virginian’s face made it so very worth it.

**

A moan of relief fell from his lips as he closed the door to the house on Third Street that he and Eliza had picked out last August. He thought he’d never be able to leave that dining room. Any time spent with Jefferson always seemed to leave him with a merciless headache and the desire to sleep for days on end. 

“Dinner went well, then?” Eliza queried, watching him from the entryway to the parlor with a teasing smile.

“I can’t stand him,” Hamilton groaned as he shrugged out of his winter coat. “He barely speaks. It’s impossible to win an argument when all he does is listen to my side, then change the subject. What’s the point of even meeting with him?”

“Well, as long as we don’t need to move cities again, I’d consider it a win.”

His face fell. He knew she was angry about having to leave New York, their home and their friends, as part of his concession to pass assumption of the debt, but he hadn’t expected her to raise that now. The comment had clearly come off more barbed than she’d intended, because her expression softened, and she swept over to kiss him softly.

“Do you want some tea?” she offered. Her hands massaged his shoulders gently. “Sarah brought up a fresh pot.”

“I have more work to do. Now that the lighthouse at Cape Henry is authorized—”

“Come sit for a few minutes,” she insisted. Her lips touched his again, soft and light as a butterfly’s wing. “Pip finished his theme a few minutes ago. He’s eager to show you.”

He gave in and followed her into the parlor. Pip was writing at his little desk, his face scrunched up with concentration as he wrote in his composition book. Alex and Jamie appeared to be fighting for control of the rocking horse, while Fanny and Angelica sat on the sofa, little fingers occupied with sewing circles. When he’d settled on the sofa beside the girls, Pip bounded over, thrusting the theme book into his hands.

“I finished, Papa,” Pip announced proudly.

Eliza poured a cup of tea for him as he opened the book to the latest page. Pip’s writing was crooked and just a touch too large, but he could tell his son had put thought into the answer to the question he’d set him this morning. He smiled encouragingly when he glanced up, and saw Pip’s chest puff out with pride.

“Do you want a tart, honey?” Eliza offered. “They’re cherry. Your favorite.”

“No, thank you,” he refused. She kept making him little treats like that, trying to tempt him to indulge himself. She felt unreasonably guilty for Angelica’s letter, he knew, but giving him desserts was hardly going to undo the truth of her sister’s words.  When she frowned in disappointment, he pleaded, “As much as I love your tarts, my angel, I’m quite stuffed from Mr. Jefferson’s dinner.”

“I want a tart, Mama,” Alex piped in, abandoning his wrestling match with his little brother in hopes of a treat. Eliza smiled indulgently, and placed one of the treats on a plate for him.

When Alex was settled, she brought over the teacup for him and sat on his other side, her hand rubbing up along his arm and resting on his shoulder, her fingers tangling unconsciously in his hair. The tension in his shoulders loosened at the affectionate gesture. He loved when she played with his hair.

Time in the loving embrace of his family seemed to fly by with a speed incongruous with the pace it had taken while he’d been at Jefferson’s lodgings. After Eliza finished plying him with tea, he knelt down on the floor to play with the boys. Fanny and Angelica were both quick to abandon their sewing when they saw a chance for a piggy back ride, and soon he was rolling around with his little ones, thoughts of Jefferson and his political intrigue far away.

Eliza had a great knack for knowing when he was about to excuse himself to return to work. The very moment  the thought of the contracts on his desk crossed his mind, she immediately rose. “All right, children, time to go upstairs and start readying for bed. Papa and I are going to take our evening constitutional.”

He sighed. “Betsey, I really must—”

“It’s important for your health that you exercise.”  

He touched a hand to his stomach self-consciously, the statement conjuring Angelica’s words all over again. As Eliza ushered the children towards the stairs, she paused beside him and whispered, “It’s my only time alone with you.” She smiled, and looked perfectly sincere; still, he couldn’t help wondering if that was the only reason she wanted him to take the evening walk.

As they set out into the brisk winter air towards Walnut Street, Eliza tucked her arm around his. “I feel like we never see each other anymore,” she remarked. “It’s even worse than usual, since we moved to Philadelphia.”

“I know,” he agreed. “I’ve only just begun to set the nation on a more solid financial footing. There’s so much left to do. And between Madison and Jefferson, I can hardly keep up with all the plots to undo the work I’ve already done.”

Eliza squeezed his arm comfortingly. “You’ll manage.”

“I hope so.” If he failed, economic collapse and the ruin of the nation were sure to follow. After a beat, he added, “You sleeping in a separate room is hardly helping.”

“I’m not sleeping in a separate room,” she said. “I’ve just been comforting Fanny. I try to give you time to fall asleep before I come back, so I won’t disturb you. You need your rest.”  

“You’re never there when I go to sleep.” His voice carried more bitterness than he’d intended. He wasn’t angry with her, not at all, but he did miss her desperately.

He could actually hear her lips thinning in response, he’d swear to it. “Fanny’s nightmares keep getting worse. What would you have me do? Leave her weeping in her bed so you won’t be lonely?”

Guilt swept over him. Their poor little girl had been suffering acutely from nightmares ever since they’d broken word to her of her father’s death. He doubted she even remembered Edward Antil; although they’d been honest with her from her earliest days about her parentage, she’d never wavered from referring to them as Mama and Papa. As gentle and reassuring as they’d tried to be, though, the concept of a parent dying appeared to have had a profound effect on her.

“Of course not.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” She sighed, and added, “I’m just really tired.”

“Me, too.” They shared a weak smile in the orange glow of the streetlamps. “I love you, Betsey.”

“I love you, too,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.

They continued strolling along the street in companionable quiet for a time. 

“I saw Mrs. Washington today,” Eliza commented suddenly. Her voice had the particular quality it always acquired when she meant something to sound casual and airy, but it in fact had more significance. “She’s encouraging Angelica and Fanny to sign up for dance lessons with Nelly.”

“That sounds nice,” he replied, tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“It’s rather…expensive.”

Ah. Money. The ever sensitive topic.

“You know our finances better than I do at this point, my dearest,” he said honestly. She’d taken over care of the finances before they’d left New York. He’d hardly even look at their account books recently. “If you think we can afford it.…”

“Pip and the girls all need new clothes,” she added. Her voice began to sound strained. “The rent is higher here in Philadelphia, as is the grocer bill. And you keep talking about sending Pip to boarding school this year. He’ll need clothes, and books, and money for room and board, not to mention the cost of the school itself.”

He frowned.

“I’m…worried, Alexander.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he tried to reassure her. 

“I’m doing my best, but I can only juggle so much when the income just isn’t there. The way you spend money….”

Defensiveness flared up within him. “Didn’t you have the dress you’re wearing made at the tailors this month?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s not just me spending money, is it?”

“Don’t cross examine me, Alexander,” she snapped. After a deep breath, she continued more calmly, “I’m not trying to attack you, honey. I’m just telling you that we need more money. I could talk to my father?”

“No.” His refusal was immediate. “No. I’ll…I’ll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll consult on legal cases,” he suggested. Even the thought of it made him want to curl up and weep—he hardly had time to sleep as it was—but if his family required more money, he’d need to do what was necessary to provide it for them. “Reviewing appeal documents, perhaps. Nothing that could cause a conflict of interest with my current position.”

“Honey,” she sounded concerned. “You don’t have the time to take on legal work on top of your Treasury post.”

“If we need money, I’ll make more money. That’s my job.”

“That’s your job for the entire country.” She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “You know Papa would be happy to help if you’d let him.”  

“I promised to provide for you and our family when I married you, and I intend to see that through.”

She shook her head at him. “Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. We can economize. We’ll manage. We always manage.”

“I’ll look into taking on a few cases.” He dropped a kiss onto her head to settled the discussion. He hated that the only time they managed to eke out with each other, they spent arguing about money. He’d do anything, work as much as he needed to, so long as he had her by his side. “Would you try to come to bed tonight?”  

“I’ll do my best,” she promised.

Later, much later, when he’d finally finished reviewing the most pressing documents in his briefcase, he managed to drag himself to bed and was delighted to see Eliza waiting up for him. He slipped into a nightshirt and crawled into bed beside her. “Hello, my darling angel.”

Her brow was furrowed. “Why did you change in the dressing room?”

“Isn’t that what it’s for?”

“You’re still sensitive about what Angelica said.” She didn’t phrase it as a question.

“It’s not what she said. It’s that it’s true. Look at me, I’m growing round as a pumpkin.”

She smiled up at him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I like it. You’re less bony; much more cuddly.”

“What every man wants to hear,” he commented. She nuzzled her nose against his neck and squeezed him tight, though, and he couldn’t help chuckling. He rolled over, partially on top of her, intent on kissing her properly.

“Careful. You might crush me,” she teased, expelling an exaggerated breath around a laugh.

“Too soon. Not funny,” he insisted, crushing their lips together. He was smiling, though, properly smiling.

“Mama!” Fanny’s scream carried all the way across the house.

He groaned.

Her eyes held an apology as she pushed him away. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “She needs you. Go.”

She pulled on her dressing gown and hurried from the room, while he rolled over in bed and stared up the canopy. Without Eliza beside him, his mind raced with all that needed doing. The comfort and relaxation he'd felt moments before seemed to disappear with her. He drummed his hands on his chest absently, then sat up.

Well, he may as well get some work done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little stress, a little insecurity, and the stage is set—we’re about to take the plunge into the summer of ’91. I officially can’t drag my feet anymore (probably) :)  
> 1\. See Hamilton to Jefferson, 11 January 1791  
> 2\. Eliza Hamilton interview with Benton J. Lossing, 1848.  
> 3\. Elkins and McKitrick, The Age of Federalism, p. 195  
> 4\. Paraphrase from Federalist No. 36.  
> 5\. Angelica Church to Eliza Hamilton, April 1792—I adjusted this letter up a year to play up Hamilton's insecurities more.  
> 6\. Robbins, “James McHenry, Forgotten Federalist,” p. 67: Embracing Laurens after the battle of Yorktown, McHenry supposedly queried, “Here is Caesar, but where is Alexander,” to which Laurens replied, “He is safe.” The fact that Laurens was teasingly referred to as here Caesar adds an interesting layer to the comments that follow.  
> 7\. The famous dinner party with Hamilton, Jefferson, and Madison has been covered so much recently, I thought I’d write about this one instead. Joanne Freeman tells this story in the most entertaining way in her American Revolution course (available on youtube and itunes, if you’re interested). Hamilton's comments about Caesar over a meal they shared were repeated by Jefferson for literally decades, but given that Hamilton never expressed any real admiration for Caesar anywhere else in his papers, it seems highly likely that Hamilton was messing with Jefferson (assuming, of course, Jefferson didn’t just make the whole interaction up).


	13. Maria's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like summer in the city....

**July-September 1791**

Maria’s palms felt sweaty as she hesitated outside the elegant Third Street home. James had pointed it out enough times for her to be sure it was the right house, his lips curling over his teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile as he whispered, “That’s the one, girlie. The house with the golden goose.” The feeling of his hand pressing at the small of her back still lingered.

But she wasn’t here for James. Part of her, the naïve part that had believed James might make something of himself back when she’d first married him, wondered if he might be pleased when he returned to find she’d made contact with his elusive prize. Mostly, though, what she needed was the money James’s so-called golden goose promised. If this didn’t work, if she wasn’t successful…Susie’s little voice echoed in her head: “I’m hungry, Mama.”

She couldn’t fail.

With her stomach twirling in somersaults, she exhaled and rang the bell.

The door opened instantaneously, but not for her. A gentleman was exiting, still donning his hat as he continued a conversation he’d been having with someone inside. “Thank you, Mr. Wolcott. And tell the Secretary I’ll be back with the final numbers next week.” Just before he collided with her, he stepped aside, and added, “Oh, excuse me, ma’am.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mr. Wolcott replied to the gentleman, even as his dark eyes fixed upon her. “May I help you, madam?”

“I—” Her voice felt stuck in her throat. Deliberately clearing it, she managed, “I need to speak with Mr. Hamilton. Most urgently.”

Wolcott frowned. “Is he expecting you?”

“No.” Her mouth hung open a moment longer, unsure of how much of her story she ought to divulge to this unknown man. When she didn’t add anything more, Wolcott’s frown deepened.

“The Secretary is busy with appointments and family business today. If you haven’t an appointment—”

“Please,” she begged, placing her palm on the door frame as if to stop him from slamming it shut on her, though he’d threatened no such movement. “I need to see him. I’ll be happy to wait for however long.”

Her desperation seemed to soften him. “Do you have a card?”

A card. Of course. A lady would have a card. And she’d taken such care with her dress, and her hair, trying desperately to look the part. Tears pricked at her eyes, panic and fear heavy weights in her chest. “No, I…I’m very new to the city. But Mr. Hamilton is an acquaintance of my sister, Susannah Livingston. I must see him. Please.”

Pity filled Wolcott’s eyes at her tearful plea. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Mrs. Reynolds. Maria Reynolds.”

He nodded and waved her into the house. “Take a seat in the parlor. I’ll see if Mr. Hamilton can spare of a moment to speak with you.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you.” She could have hugged him.

She was ushered into the front parlor and told to wait. Wolcott pulled the door closed behind her, but he didn’t shut it properly, leaving her a crack through which to view of the empty hallway. Lowering herself into one of the padded chairs, she clasped her hands in her lap and waited.

A clock ticked loudly on the mantle, marking each interminable second. When no one materialized immediately, she let her gaze wander to examine her surroundings. Boxes were piled on the mahogany sofa, and a large portrait of Louis XVI had been removed from its hangings to lean against the empty fireplace. The family must be in the midst of a move, she thought.

“There you are, sweetheart. I was just about to come call you for dinner.” The soft voice sounded so close that Maria startled in her seat, only to realize the woman speaking was in the hallway, addressing someone else entirely.

“I’ll be a few minutes longer. Wolcott told me we’ve a caller who needs to speak with me urgently. A Mrs. Reynolds, I think it was? Friend of yours?” Through the cracked open door, Maria could see the straight posture and distinctive profile of the Treasury Secretary, halted just outside.

Maria craned her head to the side to see an opened face, fashionably dressed woman, who could only be Mrs. Hamilton, shake her head slightly. Her voice lowered slightly as she added, “Mr. Wolcott didn’t seat her in the parlor, I hope. It’s a frightful mess in there.”

“It’s fine,” Hamilton reassured her. “Go start dinner with the children. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

His wife smiled, and then, to Maria’s surprise, she leaned in, her arms winding around her husband’s torso. She pecked him on the lips, the kiss quick and full of affection, then squeezed him tight. Hamilton’s arms wrapped around her in turn.

A brief, but achingly loving hug.

The gesture had been so natural, something obviously repeated a thousand times before. What would it be like, she wondered, to be married to a man for whom you could show such easy, genuine affection? The first tendril of envy wormed it’s way through her chest.

The door to the parlor opened fully, and Hamilton stepped inside, closing the door properly behind him. “Mrs. Reynolds? I’m Alexander Hamilton.” The warm smile he’d given his wife was still upon his face as he bowed to her. “How may I be of service to you, ma’am?”

**

When the knock came, Maria smoothed back her hair self-consciously before answering. Susie was safe downstairs with Mrs. Baker, the round cheeked, smiling old widow whose fat, gray cat provided endless amusement to her little six year old. The wine was chilled and she’d propped the window open to let in the evening breeze. Cluttered and shabby though they may be, the rooms were as tidy as could be hoped.

“Mrs. Reynolds?” She recognized his voice through the thin door and breathed a sigh of relief. The worry she’d carried all afternoon that he’d send Mr. Wolcott in his place had been for naught.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said as she opened the door, her gratitude sincere. He held his hat in his hand, though his lightweight cloak still hung about his shoulders. A little pouch was already held outstretched towards her. “Please, come inside.”

“Oh, I can’t stay,” he said, flustered, as she tugged him by the arm into the room. “I drew money from the bank for you, enough to cover the expense for the stagecoach to New York, plus a little extra.”

The banknotes felt new and crisp as she ran her fingers over the edges inside the battered pouch he’d offered. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held banknotes meant just for her. James always snatched them from her as soon as he saw them. The money made her feel safer, secure in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

Perhaps she would go to New York. She could now. She could take the money and flee with Susie, get a divorce, start fresh, just as she’d told Hamilton that afternoon. The very notion felt heretical, and yet so freeing at the same time. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Truly, sir, you’re saving my life.”

“It’s nothing so heroic as that,” he demurred. “I wish I could do more for you, but that’s all I can spare right now.”

“It’s everything.”

A look of understanding passed over his face; for a moment, she almost believed he understood how even a small gesture of kindness could mean the world to someone with nothing to their name. Had he felt that way, once upon a time, she wondered, intrigued.

He smiled weakly and bowed. “A safe journey to you, ma’am.”

“Wait. Please.”

He hesitated.

“You’ve been so kind. I wanted to express my gratitude.” His brow furrowed and his mouth opened to voice another refusal, but she cut in before he could. “I haven’t much, but I wondered if you might…well, if you might share a glass of wine with me. It’s the least I could do. Please.”

He sighed, but he was still smiling. “I’d be honored to share a glass of wine with you, ma’am. But then I really must be off. I’ve much still to do tonight.”

Did he really? The sun had already set outside. She didn’t think gentlemen kept such late hours. His shoulders carried a tension to them, and she found herself wanting to help ease his burdens as he’d helped ease hers. She poured the wine as he took a seat.

The red stained his lips when he took a sip.

**

She paced the length of the room to the window, peeked out into the alleyway below, then turned to pace back towards the door. He’d come, wouldn’t he? The memory of that night with him had fevered her brain ever since, but apparently hadn’t made much of an impression on him. At least, that seemed the only conclusion to be drawn from his prolonged silence.

She’d had other men before. Many of them. Most did little to distinguish themselves from any other. They’d find their release, fall to the side, and proceed to tell her all their woes: wives who didn’t understand them, investments that just weren’t panning out. She often thought they wanted more for a mother than a lover.

But Hamilton had been different—strong and tender all at once. He was a magnificent lover. Despite the tension she’d felt in his back and the heavy lines of stress she'd read on his face, he didn’t complain about his cares when they were done. He’d stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as they laid side by side in her bed. In the safety of his quiet company, she’d found herself sharing things, intimate things, about her life: James’s cruelty and abandonment, how ashamed her father had been of her in the end, her worries for Susie.

Looking back now, she didn’t think he’d really been listening to her as she unburdened herself; he’d simply been too polite to embarrass her by leaving immediately. But that was all right, she consoled herself. She’d never listened to the men she bedded, either. 

Worrying her thumbnail between her front teeth, she thought again of the letter she’d sent mere hours before. Guilt squirmed somewhere in her middle, but she tried to squash it down. None of it had been a lie, after all. Susie had been poorly. And Maria certainly did not have money enough to send for a proper doctor. If she’d gleaned from careful inquiries that he had a particular solicitude towards children, if she understood that he’d come for a sickly child where he might not come for her, that was all beside the point.

The knock came at the door.

“Thank God you’ve come,” she sighed before the door was even open.

Something wary lingered behind his eyes. “I was surprised to see you were still in Philadelphia, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Maria,” she insisted. “Susie’s just through here. I just couldn’t get on the stagecoach with her looking so peaky. She’s been complaining of a sore throat. I didn’t know what to do.”

The wariness seemed to give way to concern.   

“I’m no physician,” he insisted, even as he stepped across the threshold. “But I’ll offer any assistance that I can.”

“Thank you,” she said again, leading him back into the little closet that functioned as Susie’s room.

Maria had lit a lamp within to make up for the lack of windows. Susie slept curled up on her little bed, a rag doll clutched to her chest. Hamilton lowered himself into the chair by the bedside while Maria lingered in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Susie,” Maria called gently. Her little girl’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw the unfamiliar man beside her, she scooted back. “It’s all right, darling. This nice man is Mr. Hamilton. He’s here to help you feel better.”

“I was sorry to hear you’ve been feeling under the weather, Miss Reynolds,” he added. Susie seemed to ease slightly at the sight of his sunny smile. “Your mama said you’ve a sore throat?”

Susie nodded.

Hamilton hummed sympathetically. “Well, I’m going to touch your wrist to feel your pulse if that’s all right?” When Susie nodded shyly, he laid his fingers on the inside of her wrist, and removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat to measure the time. With his eyes trained upon the watch, he commented, “That’s a very pretty doll. Does she have a name?”

“Anna,” Susie answered.

“That’s a beautiful name. I have a little girl about your age who favors a stuffed rabbit. She named him Stew.” Susie giggled. Maria hadn’t heard that sweet sound in far too long. Hamilton smiled wider, his gaze flickering over to her. “I know. That’s a silly name for a rabbit isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Susie confirmed.

Hamilton reached out and touched the back of his hand to Susie’s forehead. Nodding to himself, he said, “One last thing, and you’ll have to pardon me, miss, because it’s a little silly. I need you to stick your tongue out at me.”

Susie giggled again, her whole face lighting up. “What?”

“I’m perfectly serious,” he said with a wink. “Stick out your tongue as far as you can, and say ‘ahh.’ Just like this.” He demonstrated the direction, crossing his eyes as he did so, and sending Susie into an attack of full belly laughs. When she’d calmed slightly, she followed the command, still grinning as her tongue hung out.

 “Very good, Miss Reynolds,” he praised after peering down her throat for a long moment. “Do you like molasses candy?”

Susie nodded vigorously, and Hamilton fished around in his pocket to produce the treat.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” he added as he rose from his seat.

“Is she going to be all right?” Maria asked anxiously as soon as she’d closed the door to the little room.

“She’s fine,” Hamilton replied, the warmth in his voice much reduced out of Susie’s earshot. “Just the sniffles. You can leave on the next coach to New York, if you wish.”

“Not until she’s fully recovered.”

“Disease runs rampant in the city during the summer months. The sooner you leave, the better,” he advised. He’d left a large gap between them, she noticed, and clear course to the door, as though she might intend to trap him here. As though he hadn’t been a perfectly willing participant the last time.

“Has Mrs. Hamilton left for the country?” she inquired.

The mention of his wife made him wince. “Yes.”

So, he was alone in the city. Alone for the whole summer. She bit her lip and closed the gap between them. “I truly can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. You’re so kind. So wonderful.”

“Mrs. Reynolds, please—”

“Maria,” she corrected again.

He swallowed. His pupils grew large as she leaned in close, her hands resting against his chest. “Maria.”

She smiled as her lips touched his.

**

The master bedroom was sparsely decorated, much like the rest of Hamilton’s Third Street residence. They were moving to a new house on Market Street, he’s explained when she’d asked about the Spartan rooms.1 Even so, the bed was made up with beautiful, clean linens, with a vanity and two arms chairs remaining to furnish the space. Maria let her legs swing idly on the bed while she waited for Hamilton to finish his work downstairs.

Something serious had happened in Philadelphia in the weeks since he’d returned from his trip to New York City, something to do with his bank.2 An economic panic had gripped the country. She’d seen grown men sitting helplessly on stoops with tears streaking down their faces, their wealth, which they’d seen doubled only days before, now gone without a trace.

“Duer’s in a bit of a spot,” James had mumbled to her last night, at last returned from his wanderings. He’d reeked of whiskey, but he’d been more or less in good spirits.

“Did you lose money with the bank?” she’s asked nervously.

“Course not,” he’d replied, almost offended. He must not have had any money to invest, then, she’d thought. Nothing else would have kept him from such a venture.

“Well, that’s good.”

“I’ve better opportunities on the hook.” She must have looked skeptical, because he’d pinched her chin and grinned. “Don’t I always take care of you, girlie?”

She knew better than to answer anything other than, “Of course you do.”

“This new venture is a sure thing. Duer got us a list of soldiers without families who have money owing to them from the war. All we have to do is file some paperwork, and poof, the money’s ours. He should have stuck with us ‘stead of wasting everything in that banking nonsense.” 

“Isn’t it wrong to take money from soldiers?” she’d asked without thinking.

James’s face had darkened. “They’re dead, aren’t they? They’ve got no families. I’m not hurting nobody except the government. And why shouldn’t the government give me something? ‘tain’t my fault I weren’t old enough to fight in the war.”

She’d gone quiet after that.

She hadn’t mentioned Hamilton.

Something creaked in the hallway and she stilled, listening, but no footsteps followed. Hamilton must still be working on something. Sighing, she lowered herself from the bed to pace about the room.

Papers littered the vanity along with a bottle of perfume, some discarded makeup, and a pincushion. She sat before the mirror and reached out for the perfume, letting the expensive scent tickle her nostrils. After replacing the bottle carefully, one of the letters caught her eye, nearly buried under wallpaper samples.

The letter detailed which wallpaper should decorate which rooms of the new house, along with directions on art placement and furnishings. An utterly domestic note. At the bottom was a simple doodle of a face with closed eyes and puckered lips next the notation, “All my love and a thousand kisses for you.”

Envy grew along with a heavy stone of guilt that she tried to swallow down. The more she learned about Eliza Hamilton, the more fascinated she became. She was beautiful, smart, accomplished, with a happy and loving marriage. Maria felt a jealousy towards her that bordered on infatuation. 

Maria knew how it hurt, how betrayal sank under your skin into your bones, turning you hard and cynical and full of doubt. But it wasn’t her fault. Hamilton had come to her, after all, more than once. He’d said yes. He’d even stopped asking when she was going to New York, content to keep her in his bed.

She wasn’t the one betraying Eliza.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped and turned in the seat to see Hamilton standing in the doorway behind her. Plastering on a smile, she said, “Just fixing my hair.”

He closed the door behind him and immediately began loosening his cravat.

“Is everything all right with your bank?” she asked.

He sighed, his face drawn and his eyes heavily bagged. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said honestly. He never wanted to talk about his work. Or his family. Did she not know better, she might believe he were an unemployed bachelor for all he said about his life.

She let her smile turn seductive as she rose to go to him. “Then let’s not talk.”

**

“Get off with you!” A woman’s voice shouted from the street below, audibly slurred and raspy with too much drink. A dog began barking at the noise, and something loud and metallic clattered onto the cobblestone street. A man’s voice called back, even more slurred than the woman’s, “I’m going, you great harpy!”

Maria glanced over fretfully, but all the caterwauling from the street below didn’t seem to have roused Hamilton. His brow was creased, pinched with stress even as he slumbered. The two glasses of wine he’d guzzled down when he’d arrived must have hit him harder than he’d intended, for he rarely slept beside her, especially now that his family had returned.

She knew his family was home, not because he’d said so, but because she’d seen them strolling through the market together. Hamilton had one of the younger boys on his shoulders, and Eliza was laughing at something he’d said. His expression had been full of adoration. Maria had hidden behind a stall until they disappeared into the crowd, jealousy and sadness and anger churning through her.

She never mentioned it to him.

Looping the tie of her robe about her waist, she leaned out the window to draw it shut. After all the despairing messages it had taken to bring him back to her, she didn’t want him disappearing again all because of her rowdy neighbors. She wanted the illusion of intimacy for as long as she could keep it.

The floorboards creaked in the other room, making Maria hold her breath. James wouldn’t come in, would he? After a tense moment, things went quiet again in the other room.  

James had found out, but not because she’d told him. She’d liked having the secret, liked being able to set aside Hamilton’s monetary gifts for herself instead of delivering them directly to James’s grubby fingers. But he’d followed her one day. He did that sometimes, for no reason at all, other than he liked keeping her wary and on edge.

She’d found him cleaning his gun when she walked in the door, and he’d looked up at her with a predatory grin. “You’ve been keeping a secret, girlie. You’ve caught yourself the golden goose all on your own.”

She’d felt her eyes widen as the cold weight of fear clenched in her middle.

“That’s good,” he’d assured her. “Very good. He like you?”

She’d nodded, still dumb with shock.

“Then here’s what we’re going to do.”

She would need to do set the plan in motion when Hamilton woke up, she instructed herself firmly. She should have done it already. But she was so happy to see him, so pleased that he’d returned, that she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

She eased herself back into bed, rolling close to Hamilton to nestle into his side. He sighed in his sleep, rolled his head towards hers, then suddenly jolted up in the bed. Rubbing his hand over his face, he asked, “What time is it?”

“Half past nine.”

He fought to free his legs from the tangle of sheets. “I should have been home an hour ago. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You seemed tired.”

He grunted as he began to hunt for his clothes.

“Hamilton?”

“I need to go.”

“My husband came back.”

His whole body went still. “What?”

“James. He’s back. He says he’s sorry for leaving me. That we should try to work things out. What do you think?”

He stood straight, pulling his breeches up with him, a considering look on his face. For a brief, fluttering moment, she imagined him telling her not to go back to James. That they should run away together, just him, and her, and Susie.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d be the white knight of her fairy tale.

“You should try for a reconciliation,” he said at last. “It’s best for you, and for Susan.”

A lump formed in the back of her throat. She hated herself for thinking it, even for a second. Fairy tales weren’t real. And the naivety of thinking otherwise was exactly how she’d ended up married to a man like James Reynolds.

“Right. Of course.”

He smiled tightly at her. “I really do have to go.”

She nodded rapidly and repeated, “Right.”

Hastily buttoning his waistcoat over his shirt, he shrugged on his coat, slipped on his shoes, and opened the door. He looked first to the left, then to the right, before exiting.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she called after him before he could close the door.

“I’ll try,” he said without looking back at her. The door closed firmly behind him.

She rose from the bed to look through the closed window. Within a minute, Hamilton had appeared on the street, looking left and right before racing across the road. He didn’t want to be seen here.

He was ashamed of her.

A quick brush of her hand removed the moisture from her cheeks. It was easier this way, she told herself. Things felt clearer now.

The more she’d taken of Hamilton for herself, the less satisfied she’d felt. She didn’t want him, not as he was when he came to her. The man she wanted, she’d realized, was Eliza’s husband. He’s someone she’s never really met; a man who only existed in Eliza’s eyes.

A door creaked open behind her, the sound of heavy boots and the scent of whiskey filling the room where Hamilton’s spiced scent had been. “How’d it go?” James asked, voice snide and slurred at the same time.

Maria kept her gaze on the empty street. “According to plan.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Hamilton to Eliza 27 July 1791  
> 2 On August 11, 1791 an economic panic gripped the United States, bursting the bubble created during “Scriptomania.” The Bank of the United States opened July 4, 1791 and speculation over the dividends that would be paid for shareholders went crazy. Bank scrip rose and fell in price dramatically over the next few weeks. Hamilton stepped in to “talk down” the market to keep things from getting too out of control, and he was eventually able to stabilize everything. And all this was happening in the middle of the Reynolds affair. 
> 
> It felt so wrong to give Eliza’s chapter to Maria! And everyone is so slimy (except Eliza and poor Susan of course). The rest of the chapters will go back to Ham and Eliza's povs. It was actually really hard trying to write from Maria’s point of view because we know so little about her true motivations. In the pamphlet, Hamilton waffles between describing her as a having a sincere attachment to him, to saying she was a schemer out to blackmail him. I’m guessing reality was probably somewhere in the middle— I wanted to show how intertwined the con artist and the young woman in trouble were in Maria’s character. 
> 
> When I was researching for Finding Forgiveness, I listened to a great podcast series on infidelity by “Dear Sugars” that included an episode about the person outside the marriage. I didn’t use anything from it at the time because I wasn’t writing very much about Maria, but it did give me some ideas that I layered into Maria’s character in this chapter. The guest spoke about her own experiences as “the other woman,” having twice married men who had been married to someone else when she met them. The interesting thing she mentioned was that it was really the relationship that had appealed to her more than the men themselves. Rather than taking that relationship as a model, she took the man, only to find that the man she ended up with wasn’t the man she was fell love with.


	14. Eliza, November 1791

**November 1791**

The playing cards slid on the coach seat between Eliza and Pip as the wheels struggled over the rocky roadway to Trenton. Eliza swept the messy pile back into place as Pip laid down a pair of cards with an air of triumph. Her boy gave her a toothy grin.

“I win!”

“I suppose you do,” she conceded, laying down her hand of mismatched numbers and suits.

Pip scooped up the deck and began to shuffle the cards. He’d won almost every hand since they’d set out that morning. She suspected he wasn’t doing the most thorough job of shuffling, but he was having fun, which was really all that mattered.

Her gaze drifted to the seat opposite her while Pip prepared for their next game. Hamilton had settled into the corner with a blanket spread over his legs to keep away the late fall chill. He’d been working on his latest report to Congress when they first set out, with his traveling desk on his lap as he frowned over column after column of numbers. His desk now rested on the seat beside him. His face was pinched and gray, and he had his eyes closed and his hands folded together near his mouth, as though he were deep in thought. Or perhaps he was praying?

Something was troubling him, and had been for a while now, she knew, but what it was, she couldn’t say. She used to know every thought, calculation, and fancy of his by the knit of his brow or the glint in his eye. Now he felt closed off from her, distant in some intangible way.

“Do you want to play, Papa?” Pip asked as he tried to force a thick chunk of cards into the middle of the stack.

Hamilton’s brow furrowed further, but his eyes fluttered open. A weak smile formed on his lips. “I think I’ll let you keep thrashing Mama for now.”

Eliza rolled her eyes at him, and he made a face at her in return. The glimpse of good humor in him made her smile. The distance between them seemed to shrink for a blessed moment.

Pip frowned at the answer, though. Setting his cards on the seat, he swung himself over to the other side of the coach and fit himself in the narrow space between his father and the traveling desk. As his arms wound around his father’s waist, Hamilton lowered an arm to rest on Pip’s back, bringing him in closer. With a kiss to Pip’s messy hair, he remarked, “We must be getting close. Are you excited?”

Pip gave a non-committal shrug. A flash of anxiety crossed his face, the very expression she’d been working so hard to ward off this whole trip. Hamilton must have noticed as well, because he soothed a hand down Pip’s spine and continued speaking in a light, reassuring tone.

“There’ll be plenty of other boys your age. You’ll make friends in an instant. And Mr. Frazer is the soul of kindness. You’re going to love it at this school.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

The Reverend William Frazer’s boarding school at St. Michael’s attracted the sons of the most wealthy and powerful men in Philadelphia, located roughly half a day’s travel from the city. Frazer had been a Tory during the war, but he’d remained in America at the end of the hostilities. His kind, gentle nature had allowed him to resume his ministry without much fuss. Whispers had begun to circulate again, however, when the choice of school for young Philip had become common knowledge. Of course the anglophile Hamilton would choose a Tory to educate his boy, she’d heard people mutter just within earshot.

She hated that politics haunted even her children nowadays.

Hamilton had been beyond pleased when Pip was accepted to the prestigious school, whispers or not. Her son had been far less enthused. Not to mention Angelica, who’d thrown an absolute fit while they were packing Pip’s things for the journey.

“Can I go next year?” she’d asked, tears shining in her eyes while Eliza carefully folded Pip’s bedding into a trunk. “When I’m older?”

“It’s a school for boys, honey,” Eliza had informed her. 

“That’s not fair!” Angelica had shouted, before stamping her foot and stalking off to her room, slamming the door behind her. Eliza would have scolded her any other day, but she’d been too sympathetic to her daughter’s distress to do so then.  Pip and Angelica had been inseparable little troublemakers from the moment they’d met. The notion that they’d now be apart for the better part of the year seemed as foreign to Eliza as it did to them. 

The coach bumped over a particularly uneven patch of road, unsettling the baggage and rattling the occupants. Eliza saw her husband wince noticeably. Were his kidneys still bothering him? she wondered. That’s what had kept him from meeting her at Elizabethtown in September, but the affliction didn’t usually linger so long. He was starting to worry her.  

“Do you want to stop, sweetheart?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

“How about something to eat?” she suggested, forcing her voice to remain light despite her concerns for both her husband and her son. “I packed crackers and jam.”

Pip perked up at the mention of food, and swung back around to sit beside her while she prepared the snack. Jam smudged on his lips and chin as he munched away. She smiled fondly at the sticky mess he was making, savoring his lingering boyhood.

When she offered some to Hamilton, though, he refused. “Have some,” she insisted, holding the little plate out to him. “Please.” The pleading look got him to the plate from her, only for him to set it down beside him without touching the food. Sighing, she forced herself to hold her tongue.

He’d taken his diet a bit too far, in her opinion; or perhaps it was stress and overwork that had made him grow thin to the point of sickly by the time she’d returned from Albany. She done her best to fatten him up since, but her efforts had made little difference. His appetite of late was nigh nonexistent.

She felt about ready to kill her sister for her damnable comment last spring. Why should it have mattered to him what Angelica thought of his figure anyway? She’d loved him just as he was. Why wasn’t that enough?

By the time she’d set Pip to cleaning himself up, the empty fields and leafless, dreary woods of the countryside had given way to the quaint shops and homes of Trenton. Eliza leaned over towards the window and saw St. Michael’s looming in the distance. Her chest felt tight as the coach drew ever closer.

The schoolhouse beside the church was bustling with activity when the coach rolled to a stop. Servants were lugging bedsteads and trunks  of all sizes towards the boys dormitory, while parents hurriedly shuffled inside with their boys to the percussion of dead leaves crunching constantly underfoot. Hamilton levied himself from his seat, his thick cloak flapping around him as he climbed out first, then held his hand out to assist her down as well. Pip attached himself to her side while Hamilton directed their driver to unload the luggage.

She forced a smile to her face. “Isn’t this exciting?”

Pip grunted, glancing around the surroundings anxiously. She rubbed his back and let him cling to her. How she’d force him to let go later, she had no idea.

“Mr. Secretary!”

All three of them looked to see a kindly looking older gentleman making his way towards them. The call had also drawn the attention of some of the surrounding crowd, who’d previously had their heads bent down against the chilly breeze. Eliza noticed several other gentleman begin to gravitate towards them as well, attracted to her husband’s power and status.  

“Mr. Frazer,” Hamilton greeted the gentleman in return, shaking the man’s hand warmly. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife. Mrs. Hamilton, the Reverend William Frazer.”

Eliza curtsied properly to him, and he bowed formally in return.

“And Master Philip, of course,” he added, patting Pip’s back in encouragement.

“How do you do, sir?” Pip asked, giving his new teacher a proper bow.

“Very well, thank you, my boy,” Frazer replied with a warm smile. His relaxed air seemed to put Pip a little more at ease, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “I can hardly wait to have you in my lessons, Master Philip. Your father has had nothing but praise for you and your scholarly abilities.”

Hamilton gave Pip a proud clap on the back. Pip gave his father and his teacher a queasy looking smile as expressed his thanks. When Frazer’s attention returned to Hamilton, Pip shrank back to her side.

The next hours were a blur of introductions and information. Her husband had been caught up in the clamor from the moment he set foot through the door, men surging forward in waves to greet him, all eager to shake the great Secretary’s hand. She stepped back, split away from him, a mere afterthought to the crowd.

But not to Hamilton, she noticed. He kept looking back around at her, calming visibly when he’d spot her caught up in her own whirl of conversations. Something tight eased in her chest each time she saw one of the little smiles he sent in her direction.

Then, all too quickly, they were standing with Pip in his dormitory room, preparing to say goodbye.

“This is nice,” Hamilton remarked, brushing his hand over Pip’s bedding to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle. Eliza was fussing with the spare quilt she’d draped over the trunk with all Pip’s clothes and toiletries. “You have a shelf for all your books, and your own bed. I’d have killed for that when I was at King’s. I had to share a bunk with Mr. Troup, who somehow always had garlic breath.” Hamilton’s nose wrinkled at the memory.

Pip laughed genuinely in response, though he still looked anxious.

“What do you think, honey?” Eliza asked.

“It’s nice,” Pip agreed. “I like Mr. Frazer. And the other boys seem all right.”  

Pip had met the other boys who’d be sharing his room along with many of his other classmates already, and they’d all seemed to get on well enough. Once all the parents had gone, Eliza was sure they’d bond even more. For now, though, it was just the three of them in the room.

“Pip,” Hamilton said softly, catching the boys attention. “This is such an amazing opportunity for you. I know you’ll do well here. I’m so proud of you.” Pip smiled and leaned in to hug his father. “I’ll send the coach for you in two weeks, all right?”

“Promise?” 

“I promise. And a promise must never be broken, right?” Hamilton’s eyes flickered up towards her for the briefest moment while his son nodded against him. “All right. I’ll leave you to say goodbye to Mama.” 

He then swept out of the room quickly, to her surprise, leaving her alone with Pip. She frowned after him, then shook her head, unwilling to let the peculiar behavior infringe on her last moments with her sweet son. She opened her arms to Pip, and squeezed him tight against her. “I love you, my darling boy.”

“Love you, too, Mama.” His voice quavered slightly.

Eliza felt a lump forming in the back of her throat.

“You’ll be so happy here. You’ll make lots of friends, and you’ll be so busy I bet you won’t even have time to miss us.”

“Yeah,” he managed in a strangled tone.

“If you’re not happy, though, you write and tell me. I’ll send for you straight away.”

“Papa said I had to wait two weeks.”

“Write if you need to come home,” she insisted. “You leave me to deal with Papa.”

He laughed again and leaned back from her, wiping his eyes hastily. “All right.”  With a sniffle, he added, “Don’t forget the Ovid and the Latin book I need.”

“I won’t. I’ll send them along right away.”

One of the other boys came in with his parents. Pip nodded to the boy, then gave her a big smile. Her brave boy. “Bye Mama.”

“Goodbye.”

She exited into the hall with a long sigh. Leaning against the wall, she allowed herself a moment to compose herself. She’d never been away from Pip for so long, nor had she left him the care of anyone outside her family. The idea of returning to Philadelphia without him felt wrong. She wanted to go back into the room, scoop him into her arms, and bring him home with her. 

But she couldn’t do that, she lectured herself firmly. Her baby boy was growing up. She had to start letting go. This wasn’t a part of motherhood that she relished.

She could do with a hug from her husband.

Considering a moment, she was surprised he wasn’t already beside her. She glanced around only to find he wasn’t in the hallway at all. The crowds of families parted around her as she made her way to the stairs, then outside. Why would he be waiting outside when it was so very cold? she wondered as her gaze wandered around the schoolyard. Finally, she spotted her husband sitting out of the way on a brick wall, staring out into the distance.

“Sweetheart?” she called as she approached him. “What are you doing out here?”

He startled and looked up at her. A sympathetic smile tugged at her lips when she saw tears glittering in his eyes. “Sorry,” he whispered, wiping at his cheeks. “If I’d stayed another moment I never would have been able to leave.”

“I know the feeling,” she agreed as she sat beside him and wrapped him in an embrace. 

“This isn’t fair,” he said with a weak, watery laugh, turning his head into her shoulder. “Who told him he could grow up so fast?”

“I certainly didn’t, the disobedient little rogue.”

He laughed again, and she squeezed him a little tighter. The sky was already turning gray with dusk above them. Eliza fancied she could smell snow in the air.

“What do you think of staying at the local inn?” Hamilton suggested. “I don’t think I could bear to ride all the way back to Philadelphia tonight.”

Concern for him tugged at her once more. “Are you feeling all right?”

His head jerked in a non-answer as he rose and held out a hand. “I already let Robert know my intention. He went ahead to engage a private room for us. We’ll have some hot food and a good rest to fortify us for the journey home.”

“Or is it just that you can’t bring yourself to leave Pip yet?” she teased as she slid her hand into his.

He gave her a sly smile, but winced when she squeezed his hand. He pulled his hand away and hissed as he stretched his fingers. “Too many handshakes. What a terrible, democratic phenomenon.” He’d somehow gone from sheepish to haughtily disdainful between the two sentences, in a way that was quintessentially him that she couldn’t help laughing. He smirked as he continued, “I think I’m developing a bruise. Why don’t you take my elbow instead?”

She obliged and took the offered arm, holding on to him securely.

“A private room won’t be too expensive, will it?” she asked as they made their way down the road towards the inn, trying to keep her voice light.

Between tuition, a new bedstead, books and supplies for Pip, she felt as though they’d spent a small fortune. Hamilton had been spending money more freely in general lately, she’d noticed, sending her two hundred dollars for travel expenses in September, and purchasing a new machine for himself so that he could take warm baths more conveniently. A medical necessity, he’d assured her when she’d examined the device, though one of which the whole family was welcome to make use. He’d encouraged her to purchase every little luxury that had caught her attention since she’d returned home as well, everything from dresses and hats to jewelry and perfumes: all things she never would have imagined spending hard earned money on when she’d been in charge of their purse.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “We’re fine.”

Guilt pooled in her stomach as she looked up at him. He’d taken over their finances again, not long after she’d voiced her concerns over their lack of funds. She knew he’d taken on a few legal cases, and that combined with the financial wizardry that had so well served the nation, seemed to have put their finances in much better shape.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

A wrinkle appeared in his brow as he glanced down at her. “Whatever for?”

“I should have done a better job at managing our finances. You shouldn’t have that on your shoulders along with everything else.”

He came to an abrupt stop. She paused a step ahead of him and looked back. His hands clasped hers firmly as tugged her around to face him and met her gaze. “Please don’t say that.” He brought her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. “You did astoundingly well. Truly.”

She still felt like a failure. Her disbelief must have shown on her face.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Managing money when there’s none to be had is no easy thing. I couldn’t have done any better.”

“But you have done better.”

“I took some cases, sold some of our investments, and managed to procure a few loans. The additional income has given me something of an advantage.”

This was the first she’d heard of sold assets or loans, but the additional workload she’d seen plain enough in the gray pallor of his skin and the loose fit of his clothes.

“If that’s the case, I could take over the money again. That might ease the burden on you at least a little,” she suggested.

“I don’t want you worrying about any of that, Betsey. I can manage well enough.” He kissed her on the forehead when she frowned. “No worrying. I mean it. I know what’s going on in that head of yours.”

She felt her heart breaking even as she made herself smile at him. He might know what was going on in her mind, but lately, for the first time in their relationship, she hadn’t the foggiest notion of what was going on in his. When they set off down the road again, she clutched his arm more tightly, as if the physical connection might make up for the awful distance she felt between them.

After a supper of mutton, mashed potatoes, and wine that her husband barely touched (“It’s tough and overcooked,” he’d pleaded when she’d given his full plate a significant glance, though it had tasted fine to her), they both retired to their room in the early dark. The quarters were small and spare, but the bedlinen was clean and the mattress felt comfortable enough. She bounced on the bed a few times to test the firmness of the ropes underneath.

“What do you say, Mrs. Hamilton? Will it suit for the night?” he asked, already removing his jacket.

“Perfectly well,” she’d assured him.

They changed quickly and slid into bed together, though Hamilton settled in with his traveling desk and papers on his lap. Eliza tried reading briefly, but she kept glancing over at him, noticing the way the candlelight danced across his face and illuminated his eyes, bright with concentration as he scratched away on the paper before him. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched him.

How long had it been since they’d last made love? Between the children and his work, thoughts of romance too often fell by the wayside. Now that she thought of it, she realized it must have been months now. Perhaps since before she’d left for Albany? Far too long, by any measure.

He seemed to sense her gaze. His focused stare drifted up from the page to her, and a slight smile flickered across his features. “What?”  

“What are you writing about?” she asked, sliding closer to him.

“Manufacturing.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder, squinting down at the page. “What about manufacturing?”

His lips curved up into a steadier smile. “Labor forces.”

He was teasing her, she realized. He knew the conversation wasn’t moving in the direction she wished. Opting for a more direct approach, she reached out and pulled him in for a kiss. He yielded easily, and she felt his lips part against hers in invitation. As she pressed closer to him, she upset the traveling desk, and it landed on the floor with a heavy thump, his papers scattering across the floor.    

“Sorry,” she mumbled into the kiss, even as she moved to adjust her leg across his now free lap.

“Betsey,” he whispered, as their kisses grew more heated. She suddenly felt his hands on her shoulders, easing her back, away from him. With a last lingering brush of his lips, she complied with the gentle pressure, settling back on her haunches to look at him.

 “What’s wrong?” His pupils were blown wide with desire, his hair mussed from her fingers, and his lips pink and pouty from her kisses. Yet his expression looked uncertain, almost conflicted. What in the world was going on in that head of his? “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his lips slightly parted, as though he were hunting for words. “I…” he began, then trailed off. “I just…I’ve not been feeling myself lately.”

She tilted her head slightly, confused. “What do you mean? What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

Maybe it was more than his kidneys bothering him? she fretted. Or perhaps the problem with them had grown worse? Was that why he’d been losing so much weight? Why his color was off? She reached out to touch the back of her hand to his forehead.

He let her test his temperature even as he shook his head in the negative.

Well, it was something. That much was clear—had been clear for a while now.

“Then what—”

“Nothing,” he interrupted. “It’s nothing. Come here.”

He leaned in to kiss her, but she caught his face in her hands just before their lips met, cradling his jaw tenderly as his lips hovered close to hers. “You can talk to me about anything, Alexander. You know that, right?”

Had she not been so close to him, she might have missed the flash of pain that stole over his features. But then, like a passing shadow, it was gone, and he was smiling again. “I know.”

She pushed her fingers back into his hair, letting her fingernails scratch lightly at his scalp in the way he always found soothing. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, more than anything in the world,” he replied, a hint of strain in his voice. She stared up into his eyes for a long moment, simply massaging his scalp and savoring the heat of his breath as it caressed her face in the chilled air of their room. If she gave him space, an open opportunity, perhaps he’d confide in her.

Suddenly, a grin split his face, breaking the vulnerable intimacy of the moment. He rolled his eyes as though exasperated with her tender ministrations. “Now would you kiss me already?” he demanded with a breathy laugh—as though he hadn’t been the one to push her away mere moments before.

She laughed, too, though, bumping her nose against his as their lips met for another passionate kiss. He’d share his cares with her in his own time, she told herself. What could she do until then but love him as she’d always done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the source material for this chapter came primarily from: Hamilton to Eliza, 4 September 1791 and Hamilton to Philip, 5 December 1791. Hamilton and Eliza arrived in Trenton to drop Philip off on November 26, 1791. 
> 
> Writing from Eliza's point of view about this period in time was almost as hard as Maria's somehow. I debated for a while whether she'd know, or at least suspect the affair, or, alternatively, have absolutely no idea that anything was wrong. I settled on her noticing that something was off with him, but not really suspecting anything in the realm of an affair at this point. Given Ham's performance when confronted by Muhlenberg and co. about the affair (spewing the truth at them no matter how much they asked him to stop), he seemed to be carrying around one heck of a guilty conscience; so, even if Eliza didn't suspect he was cheating, she had to notice something was up with him.


	15. Hamilton, June 1792

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: some suicidal thoughts and a description of a panic attack-like experience

**June 1792**

Gentle waves lapped against the side of the fishing vessel in a steady, soothing rhythm. Hamilton crossed his arms over the rail and stared down into the murky depths of the Schuylkill as the rays of summer sun beamed down upon him. Even having shed his jacket and waistcoat, sweat was still beading at his temples and down his back. The other side of the boat provided more shade, he knew, but came at the cost of enduring Mr. Jefferson’s company, which was a price he counted far too dear.

Why Washington continued to force them on each other escaped him. A fishing expedition hadn’t mended their differences two years ago, and it had even less of a chance of success now, when their bitter debates and newspaper wars had driven them securely to their respective trenches. He’d had half a mind to refuse, with the perfectly valid excuse of pressing business and family concerns, until Eliza had counseled him to go.

“You’ve so many cares, now,” she’d whispered to him, curled on her side, facing him in their bed. Her finger traced lightly along his forehead before she placed a tender kiss to his temple. “They’re beginning to leave lines on your face. You should go enjoy some quiet relaxation, for my peace of mind if not your own.”

He would hardly call a three day trip in a confined setting with Thomas Jefferson relaxing, but he’d been unable to refuse her. 

 “Alex?”

He glanced around to see Washington cutting across from the port side and heading towards him. He looked like an old man now, weary and depleted, stress and illness having combined to take their toll over the past few years; his pallor and exhaustion were somehow highlighted by the bright sunshine and the casual setting. Concern made the wrinkles on his brow more stark.

“Here you are. I’d wondered where you’d hidden yourself. Are you quite well?”

“I’m fine, sir.” He conjured a smile, forcing himself to play the role of cheerful friend and advisor, as Washington expected. (How many parts he had been playing of late; the weight of them dragged at his soul, made his smile feel heavy and false.) “Though I am a bit fatigued. I’d forgotten how loudly you snore.”

Washington seemed to fight down an amused snort, clearly trying for severity as he contradicted, “I do not snore, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Forgive me, sir, but you do. Quite loudly. I’d learned to sleep through it while we occupied close quarters during the war, but it seems I’ve lost the knack for it.”

“Mrs. Washington’s never mentioned any such thing. How do you account for that?”

“I’d say that you snore, and your wife loves you very much.”

“Perhaps so,” Washington granted after a moment’s consideration, his expression turning fond as he leaned alongside Hamilton at the rail. A quiet beat passed between them. Hamilton heard Washington take a deep, full breath of the river breeze before he remarked, “The view from this side of the boat is very beautiful. I suppose I can’t fault you for claiming a private moment to enjoy it.”  

Hamilton inclined his head agreeably. Philadelphia was just visible in the distance, beyond the thick greenery of the trees lining the river banks. The sails of the ships headed for the wharves of the busy metropolis billowed in the breeze like clouds.

“However, now that Mr. Jefferson is finally feeling recovered, I’d like you to come join us when you’ve finished your thought.”

“My apologies,” he said, his affect flat. “I didn’t realize he’d had deigned to join us above deck.”

He could feel Washington’s disapproval without looking at him. “The poor fellow was suffering a migraine. With your good heart, I expected you to be more charitable.”

“It would perhaps be easier for me to show charity towards him if he didn’t impeach my public motives and conduct at every opportunity.”1

“That’s taking it a bit far. He simply has some objections to your funding plan. If you were to communicate more, I think you’d find that you both want what’s best for this country. And we would all most assuredly benefit to have your two great minds working in harmony.”

Hamilton scoffed. “It’s not a breakdown in communication. He’s purposefully uninformed on my economic policies. All the easier for he and Madison to seize every occasion to accuse me of promoting a monarchy, with myself in the role of American Caesar, without troubling their conscience for spreading malignant falsehoods.”

“I’ve heard you helped him along on that comparison.” Hamilton smirked, which prompted an exasperated sigh from Washington. “You’ve charm enough to walk through a swarm of angry wasps without a sting if you so desired. All I ask is that you turn some of that considerable gift towards a detente with Mr. Jefferson. Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes.”

Washington tensed beside him.

Hamilton kept his eyes cast out towards the city as he laid bare the true fissure between himself and Jefferson. “I’m trying to lay the foundation for a diverse and thriving economy, where agriculture and industry will work in harmony to establish our nation as one of the greatest in the world. The only people being left behind by my plan are that class of wealthy landed gentry who belong to a bygone era. The debate between Mr. Jefferson and myself isn’t a disagreement between two equally valid, competing ideals—one of us is right, and the other is wrong. Industry is the way of the future: manufacturing and mechanized commercial farming in the place of inefficient plantations beholden to enslave labor and reaping profits for precious few privileged landholders. For all Jefferson’s talk about liberty and virtue, and his Utopian fantasies of a pastoral paradise, the only institutions he’s truly protecting by his constant opposition to my programs are his precious estate, his money, and his slaves.”

A strained silence followed.

He waited, expecting Washington to rise to Jefferson’s defense once more. Then Washington sighed with a world weariness that made Hamilton almost regret his passionate outburst. “You know, Colonel Laurens would be very proud of you.”

He flinched. Jack wouldn’t be proud of him; Jack wouldn’t even recognize him anymore. He barely recognized himself. For a moment, he felt like history had gone wrong, sideways—that he was occupying space meant for another man. A better man. 

He closed his eyes; maybe he really did need to sleep.

“I disappoint you, don’t I?”

Was that a question for him, or for Jack? Hamilton certainly had no right to claim the moral high ground. But he remembers Jack’s unshakable faith in their commander, his certainty that if Washington could be made to understand an injustice, he wouldn’t rest until he’d seen it righted. He lets old friend speak through him. “Sometimes you do.”  

He looked over to see Washington absorb the blow. He knows his old commander is conscious of his glaring moral failing; Washington has always felt the ever present eyes of history looking on in judgment. That desire to set the country on the right path towards someday abolishing the heinous practice is one of the reasons he trusts to Hamilton’s policies with such unerring support. Why, then, could he not follow through personally?

A lump formed in the back of Hamilton’s throat, a physical reminder of his own shame. Who was he to judge? Who was he to wonder why, knowing the right path, a man might keep choosing the wrong one?

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton muttered. He was. He shouldn’t have let the mask of good humor slip. Another empty promise to pretend at harmony for Washington’s sake would have sufficed.

He’s just so tired of pretending all the time.

Washington shook his head once, swallowed, then pushed himself up from the rail. A large palm patted his shoulder, a futile attempt to absolve him. “Are you coming?” the President asked, already stepping away from him towards the passage back to the port side.

“Not yet. I’d like a few more minutes to myself, if that’s all right?”

Washington nodded, and left him to his solitude once more.

The midday heat felt oppressive even with the breeze off the water ruffling his hair. His face felt burnt and his head was sore from staring at the glittering reflection of the sun off the water. He was so very tired.

Without much consideration, he kicked the ladder down over the back of ship, pulled off his shirt, shoes, and stockings, and climbed over the edge. The water was icy cold, prickling at his skin like needles all over his body. He sucked in a deep breath, and dove under the surface.

The world went quiet.

He swam downwards. Maria appeared in his mind’s eye, smiling invitingly as she reposed upon the riverbed. “Come,” she called to him, her voice a siren call to his doom. “Come to me.”

The weight of the guilt in his chest pulled him towards her ever faster. 

He hasn’t seen her again, not for months now. That didn’t stop her letters begging for his company just once more, nor did it stop her husband’s demands on his purse. He didn’t know how to make it stop.

Maria had been so uncomplicated, so easy, at a time when everything else in his life seemed to be careening rapidly out of control. The economic panic, Madison’s betrayal, his family’s financial needs that he couldn’t begin to meet, all that stress and responsibility bearing down on him seemed to melt away in the glow of Maria’s adoring smile. She’d made him feel so desirable, so powerful, her body a forbidden temptation he couldn’t help but touch.

In reality, Maria is anything but uncomplicated. Sometimes he sensed collusion between her and her awful husband. Their letters seemed timed too perfectly to each other not to have been planned in advance. But then he’d see her again, and doubt himself.

She could assume so many forms, from seduction to tears to anger, in such quick succession that she’d leave his head reeling. James was going to take Susie away, and it was all his fault, she’d rage, before collapsing against his chest in a flood of tears, and then kissing him with all the passion of their first encounter. Surely some of it was playacting, but he couldn’t for the life of him determine what was real and what was false. He wanted to hate her, to blame her, to believe she’d cooked up the scheme to entrap him; yet, he knew, deep down, even if all of that were true, he’d still wronged her, used her shamelessly for his own pleasure.

And he’d sacrificed so much to do it. After he’d ended it, he tried spending as much time as possible at home, devoting himself entirely to being the most supportive and adoring husband, the best and most doting father—the more he tried, the more it felt forced, just another mask. Another lie. Eliza, his darling, dearest Eliza, who had always been the one person with whom he felt he could be entirely himself, hardly knew him at all anymore.

If she ever did, if she ever saw, she’d never be able to love the dark and depraved creature he’d become.  

Oh, his Eliza: his life, his joy, his home.

He’d thrown it all away. And for what? A selfish few moments of pleasure? A sop to his wounded vanity he ought not to have needed?

His lungs were screaming for air now.

The current in the river was swift, and his limbs already ached from fighting it. He stopped, floated deep under water, and wondered, just for a moment, if it would really be so bad if he never resurfaced. He could let go, stop fighting, let all the pain of his mistakes drown here with him.

Drown, the way he should have years ago in this very spot.

Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the sun struggling down to him from above, the warm light playing against his face. He thought of Eliza’s lips on his forehead, the bump of their newest child beneath his palm. No. He couldn’t do that her, couldn’t put her through that, on top of everything else.

With a few powerful kicks he breached the surface, releasing a sputtering gasp as he drank in the warm air. The boat had drifted away from him while he’d been under water. As he swam back towards it, he noticed Jefferson leaning over the stern on the starboard side, then turning back to say something to Washington. Hamilton focused on the ladder still hanging over the side, and, with a minute’s more work, reached out to grasp it and pull himself back onboard.

“Mr. Jefferson was concerned that you’d gone overboard,” Washington commented, tossing a towel at him as he shook some of the water out of his hair.

“I suppose I did,” he granted, drying himself. The hot sun, so unpleasant before, now felt a blessed relief as he stood shivering in the breeze. “But it was entirely voluntary, I assure you. I was beginning to feel a touch overheated.”

“I’m glad to see you’re safe, Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson said, seemingly caught somewhere between sincerity and disappointment. 

“Thank you.”

With a small nod, Jefferson began to walk away. Apparently unable to let the civilized exchange lie, however, the Virginian added, “I only hope you haven’t frightened all the fish away with your stunt.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes.

“He really was worried, you know. I tried to assure him that if you could manage the river under enemy fire, a swim under such idyllic conditions as these should pose you little challenge,” Washington said, leaning backwards against the rail.

“True,” he agreed, pasting on a smile. “I’m glad to hear you still have such confidence in my abilities, sir.”

“You had at least thirty more seconds before I jumped in after you.”

He laughed. The sound felt hollow and forced. Washington didn’t seem to notice.   

**

Using the alleyway to the back of the Treasury building, Hamilton slipped inside and made his way to his office. His damp hair and the bucket of fish in his hand hardly made him a presentable figure for the distinguished halls, but he wanted to check in before settling himself at home. Wolcott grinned at him when he peeked his head into the adjoining room and gestured for his deputy to come to his office.

“You’re quite a sight.”

“I went for a swim.”

“Ah. I’d just assumed Mr. Jefferson had tossed you overboard.”

“As if he could.” Wolcott laughed. He gave a weak smile and asked, “Anything pressing I should see before I retire for today?”

“I’ve looked after everything while you’ve been away. A few things on top of the pile there require your signature, but otherwise we’ve been humming along without incident.” Hamilton nodded approvingly, shuffling the papers to glance over the requests. “Oh, and two letters were delivered for you by special messenger. One on Saturday, the other today. They were addressed to you personally, so I didn’t open them.”

His pulse quickened at the sight of the two envelopes Wolcott withdrew from his coat pocket. The sound of his blood rushing and his heart hammering filled his ears, dulling the outside world around him. Sweat started at his temples again.

Reynolds had been here. Had he heard that Hamilton was away? Had he gone to the house instead? He’d been having a reoccurring nightmare of coming home to find Reynolds perched over Eliza’s dead body, smiling that hideous smile of his. “The woman you love for the woman I love. Now we’re even, Mr. Hamilton.” He always woke up sobbing. Eliza’s soft coos of reassurance somehow only made it worse.  

“Sir?”

Why? Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Mr. Hamilton? Are you all right?”

 “Yes,” he whispered, voice indistinct. His hands were shaking as he reached out for the letters, spots dancing in his vision. He tried to force himself to take a deep breath, but his chest felt tight, the guilt a solid weight that had taken up all the room for air.

“Maybe you should sit down?” Wolcott grabbed him by the elbow and led him to his desk chair. “Would you like some water?”

He shook his head and forced himself to breathe. Swallowing down his panicked thoughts, he closed his eyes, and asked, “You didn’t read them?”

“No sir.”

Wolcott’s initial explanation started to come back to him as his heart rate slowed to a more sustainable pace. “They were delivered by a messenger, you said?”

“Yes. The same messenger both times. He said to put the letter in your hand, sir, as I did.”

“Right.” A long pause followed, until Hamilton shook his head, forced a smile, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Wolcott. I’ll see to the these documents and be done for the day, I think.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary,” Wolcott said, concern still marring his brow. “Are you sure you’re all right? I could see you home?”

“No,” he refused softly. “No, thank you. I’ll be quite all right.”

Wolcott hesitated, patted his arm twice, then finally retreated from the room, closing the door behind him with a soft tap.

Hamilton sank back in his chair and opened the first letter. “ _What have I done that you should thus Neglect me_ ,” Maria wrote, her sad, pleading tone apparent in her words. “ _Let me beg of you to come…for heaven sake keep me not in suspinse let me know your Intention either by a line or by Catline_.” 2

The guilt gnawed at his stomach, eating away at him from the inside.

He hesitated before opening the second, terrified of what he’d see. A threat to tell Eliza? A threat to do something worse? “ _I am now under the necessity of asking a favour from you which if Can Oblige me with the loan of three Hundred dollars_ ,” Reynolds began bluntly.3

More money. That was all. It was almost a relief.

He crumpled the paper in his fist without finishing it.

Was it a mere coincidence that Maria had written again two days before her husband made another demand for money? Or were they truly working in concert? The letters timed to remind him Maria’s tender affections, that could be bought so easily at the low cost of three hundred dollars. He shook his head in disgust. Shoving the letters under the false bottom of his locked uppermost drawer with all the others, he quickly scrawled his name on the documents Wolcott had left and snuck out the back of the building once more.

He blinked in the afternoon sun as he emerged onto the busy city street, feeling horribly drained with a pounding headache from the spell in his office. At least their new house on Market Street wasn’t far from the Treasury building. That had been the appeal, Eliza had explained, the close proximity to the office and the Washingtons, as well as more rooms, more windows, all at a remarkably decent price.

“Better than you expected,” she’d huffed when she came home last summer, quoting back the letter he’d sent her of his assessment of the house. “Did you doubt my taste?”

“Well, you did marry me.” 

 “Exactly,” she said, kissing him firmly.

He’d smiled. “I don’t think you quite—”

“I know what you were saying. I just don’t like when you’re self-deprecating.” She’d been correcting him on that a lot lately. It always made him hate himself more.

He made himself keep taking deep, steady breaths to compose himself before he entered the house. Everything would be fine, he repeated to himself silently when he found himself outside his front door. It was over now. The pair would find a new source of income eventually, and they would leave him in peace. Eliza didn’t know. Eliza would never know. Everything would be fine.

“Shh!” Eliza hurried towards him as he stepped through the door, one finger to her lips while she braced her other hand on her beautifully rounded belly. Her voice was a low whisper as she instructed, “Don’t make a noise.” 

Panic surged through him again. “Why? What’s wrong?”

She smiled, glowing with good humor. Still whispering, she answered, “I told Jamie you were fishing, and he, for some reason, is under the impression that you’re bringing him home a pet fish. I haven’t quite been able to explain that they’re going to be our dinner, and I don’t want to deal with the tantrum sure to ensue when he sees all the fish you’ve brought him are dead.”

He tried to stifle the sound of his relieved laugh in his hand. Carefully laying down his bag and the fish, he leaned in and wrapped his wife in his arms. Eliza returned the embrace easily, her hands tracing soothing little circles across his back.

“Did you miss me?” she whispered into his ear, nuzzling his neck affectionately.

“So much.” He squeezed her tight, and let the smell of hair and the solid weight of her in his arms calm him. “The babies are all well? And you?”

“We’re all fine.”

His palm drifted to her belly. “The little lump?”

“Fast becoming a big lump. Just as active and perfectly healthy as before.”

He nodded and squeezed her tighter. Even with her held close, safe in his arms, he felt on edge, the shaky energy of his panic warring with bone-aching exhaustion. “No one came to the house while I was away, right?”

“What?”

“No strangers?”

“No.” She pulled back slightly, her hands gliding across his sides to rest on his chest. “Why? Were you expecting someone?”

 “If someone were to come here, if a man were to try to tell you something about me, rumors, a secret, something…I…I want you to ignore him. Send him away, don’t let him inside. All right? Promise me.”

“Sweetheart, what—”

“Just promise me, please?”

“All right, I..I promise.” She gave him a scrutinizing look, her eyes boring deep into his own, like she was trying to read his soul. _Please_ , he wanted to beg her, _Please don’t ask again_. A confession lived in the back of throat, and each time she asked him what was wrong, asked him to confide in her, it came closer and closer to exploding out of him, like the cork on a champagne bottle shaken too many times. As if she’d heard his silent plea, all she said was, “You look tired. The trip with Mr. Jefferson wasn’t so relaxing after all, huh?”

“Not very, no.”

“Do you want to go lie down for a little while before dinner?”

He nodded. Honestly, he felt like he could sleep for a year. Maybe even forever.

She cradled his cheek in her palm. Her fingers drifted up along his jaw and tangled gently in his hair. He closed his eyes, relishing the tender affection. “Honey?”

“Mm?”

“Why is your hair all wet? Mr. Jefferson didn’t throw you overboard, did he?”

“No.” He blinked his eyes open. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

She laughed softly. “It just seemed the most logical explanation. Who else asked you?”

“Wolcott. I stopped at my office before coming home.”

She gave him a fond look. “Of course you did. You don’t need to go back, do you?” 

“Everything seemed settled when I left.”

“Good.” She laid a gentle kiss to his lips. “Go get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

Before he made it to the stairs, she added, in an almost off hand manner, “You know, you don’t have to worry. I’d never listen to any of those awful lies people spread about you, no matter who was doing the telling. I know you too well to believe any of that vile nonsense.”

He felt something crack inside him: a piece of his soul, perhaps, or maybe just his heart. How badly he wished he deserved her unwavering faith. How desperately he wanted to be the man she thought she knew.

He smiled back at her, that heavy, false smile of his. As soon as he was safely in stairway, though, it fell from his face. He deserved this pain, this constant misery, he reminded himself.

It was no one’s fault but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Hamilton to Washington, 18 August 1792  
> 2 Maria Reynolds to Hamilton, 2 June 1792  
> 3 James Reynolds to Hamilton, 3-22 June 1792
> 
> First, apologies this chapter is so overdue! I do have the rest of the story mapped out now, though, and this is hopefully rock bottom in terms of angst (maybe?). The affair between Hamilton and Maria seems to have come to an end sometime between the spring and summer of 1792, but, of course, that wasn't the last Hamilton would hear of James and Maria Reynolds. I imagine by this time the months of deception and the crazed desperation Hamilton likely felt over the continued blackmail were taking a severe toll on him, even as he continued to pursue his economic agenda in the face of growing opposition. 
> 
> The idea to have Washington take Hamilton and Jefferson on a fishing trip came from a very real trip the three took in June 1790, while Washington was recovering from a series of life threatening illnesses. As a bonding experience, it seems to have been a miserable failure. If you had to choose two people to be in a confined space with for several days, especially after an illness, I don't think you could pick two worse people than Hamilton and Jefferson. 
> 
> By 1792, things between Hamilton and Jefferson were only getting worse. Washington was growing increasingly frustrated with the political battles and newspaper wars. Hamilton's letter to Edward Carrington from 26 May 1792 is a great read to see how besieged and angry Hamilton was in his political life at this time. Everything was really starting to crack for him.


	16. Eliza, December 1792

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We know...

**December 1792**

The fabric of the bed curtains rustled and shifted to admit the hazy predawn light along with a cold draft. Eliza moaned softly, pulled the thick quilt closer, and rolled towards the center of the mattress as the ropes beneath sank with the weight of an additional person. The impression of light against her eyelids changed as the curtains fell back into place, and something silky soft tickled the bridge of her nose.

“Alexander,” she complained, her nose wrinkling in an attempt to remove the source of the irritation.

His soft laugh preceded his whispered greeting, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Reluctantly peeling her eyes open, she found the bright red petals of a long-stemmed rose obscuring her view of her husband’s face. His face, but not his eyes: his beautiful eyes so bright and warm and full of love. He gazed at her with focused adoration, dragging the edges of the petals down her nose to rest against her lips, as though bestowing a kiss.

“Happy anniversary,” she echoed, smiling.

He laid beside her, his elbow propped against the pillow so he could look down at her. Her arm snaked out from the warmth of the blankets and her fingers skimmed along his padded waistcoat to the silky panel at the back, drawing him closer to her. He let the rose drop between them and shifted closer, his free arm coming to rest upon her waist in return.

“You’re dressed,” she observed, snuggling against him. The spiced scent of his aftershave told her he’d washed and shaved already as well, despite the early hour.

“I need to be off soon. I have a meeting first thing.”

“You never came to bed last night.” 

“I know,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “I was working late, and I accidentally fell asleep in my office.”

She peered up at him, scrutinizing the heavy bags around his eyes and the deep crease in his brow. Rubbing a circle against the small of his back, she tried to keep her voice light and even as she asked, “It wasn’t because you’ve started having the dreams again?”

“The dreams?” he echoed, the very picture of innocent confusion.

“You know what dreams.” He had never shared with her what nightmares plagued him exactly, but she’d borne witness to the aftermath countless times over the past year: how he shook with distress, his eyes shining with unshod tears, clutching at her and pushing her away all at once. Whatever the cause, it seemed to have stopped briefly, only to start all over again in the past few weeks. “I’m not stupid, Alexander.”

“Of course you’re not.” He sounded almost offended.

“I know you’ve been struggling with something. I’ve made my peace with the fact that you feel you can’t share it with me, for whatever reason. But I’m always here if you need comforting. I don’t want you to shut yourself away.”

“I’m not.” At her hard look, his eyes widened, full of sincerity. “I’m not, my darling angel. I promise. I fell asleep at my desk, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm,” she hummed, still skeptical.

A charming smile brightened his face, a transparent effort to distract her. “I have a present for you.”

“We said we weren’t exchanging gifts,” she scolded halfheartedly. That he’d ignored the agreement didn’t surprise her in the least. “Even that rose was more extravagant than we can well afford. You must have paid a small fortune for it at this time of winter.”

“Plenty of people keep greenhouses. It wasn’t much of an expense at all.”

“If you say so.”

He laughed. “Trusted with the nation’s purse strings, and yet doubted by my own wife.”

“You’re much less spendthrift with the nation’s money,” she noted. 

“We’re fine, my love. I told you, you’ve no reason to worry.” He nuzzled his nose in her hair. “Besides, my gift is of more sentimental value than anything. It cost only the postage to receive it.”

Her curiosity suitably piqued, he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a tightly folded packet of yellowed paper, which he handed to her. His fingers were icy where they brushed against hers. “What is it?”

“A letter I wrote to your sister. The first, in fact, composed no more than two weeks after we began courting. I thought you might enjoy a reminder of what a determined rogue you married all those years ago.”

She curled her fingers around the pages, bringing them under the blankets. How many times she’d heard Peggy tease Alexander about this letter, and yet she’d never laid eyes on it. She grinned with anticipation, imagining the extravagant praise that had flowed from the pen of her dashing, overeager young Colonel.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” With the letter tucked safely against her for later, she reached out again to enfold Alexander’s hand in hers, holding it to her heart for warmth. “You’re cold.”

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement. Squeezing her hand softly, his face softened perceptibly. “You’re right, you know.”

“Well, of course I am,” she teased, prompting another soft laugh. “About what?”

“I have been…anxious, lately. Overworked, I suppose. The strain of my position is beginning to show.” She nodded, the information hardly new. “I thought we might get away for a few days, as a family, when Pip comes home for the Christmas holiday. Out to the country, perhaps. We can take the little ones sledding.”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Then so shall it be.” 

She adjusted her hand so her thumb hooked around his. When his thumb moved atop hers, she adjusted again to pin his down, like the thumb wars she used to have with Angelica when they were little. He smiled, amused by the game. Warmth slowly came back to his fingers.

 In far too short a time, he craned his neck around to gauge the light now streaming through their bedroom window. She squeezed his hand tighter. “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

She sighed. “At least come home early?”

“I’ll try.” He leaned down to kiss her, his lips chapped from the cold, yet somehow softer than the touch of the rose petals. “Wolcott mentioned a production of ‘Much Ado’ at the theater. We could dress up and go see it tonight? Something special to mark the occasion. Johnny should be fine for just a few hours, right?”

“That sounds like fun,” she agreed. Any time with him would be precious, really. He’d been so harried lately.

“It’s a plan,” he said decisively. He kissed her again, then pulled her close against him, his face buried in her neck. “I adore you, Eliza. Do you know that? I cherish every sweet smile, every kiss, every touch. Every single solitary one from the past twelve years. You and the children, you’ve given my life meaning beyond my wildest imaginings.”

She nuzzled her nose against the tender spot beneath his ear, only slightly taken aback by the sudden loving declarations. “I feel the same,” she assured him. He pulled back from the embrace to kiss her once again, deep and lingering.

“I really must be off.” He sounded disappointed, at least.

“Hurry back,” she instructed, freeing his hand from her grip at last. 

“As soon as I’m able, my dearest life,” he promised, pushing himself up from the bed. The bed curtains rustled again as he pushed them aside, the cold morning air rushing into their warm cocoon. As his footsteps grew fainter, she gathered the blankets back around herself, but found herself too awake now to return to sleep.

She fished around for the pages he’d given her, retrieving them and bringing them out from the blankets. The papers were brittle in her hands, and she carefully unfolded them, squinting at the faded ink in the early morning light, filtered and dim through the bed curtains.  A silly grin spread over her face as she skimmed over his words.

“ _I venture to tell you in confidence, that by some odd contrivance or other, your sister has found out the secret of interesting me in every thing that concerns her_ ,” Alexander had confided to Peggy all those years ago, before he’d so much as set eyes upon her little sister. Turning the page over, her eye caught another passage. “ _She is most unmercifully handsome and so perverse that she has none of those pretty affectations which are the prerogatives of beauty…._ _She has had the address to overset all the wise resolutions I had been framing for more than four years past, and from a rational sort of being and a professed contemner of Cupid has in a trice metamorphosed me into the veriest inamorato you perhaps ever saw._ ”*

His words made her heartbeat quicken the same way it had when his little love notes would arrive at her aunt’s house in Morristown. How lucky she was, she thought, to still be so very much in love with him after all these years. Hugging the pages to her in lieu of her darling Colonel, she reached down to retrieve the rose he’d left her.

She hissed when her fingers brushed the stem. A sharp thorn pricked her finger, the barb sinking deep enough to draw a drop of blood. She placed the finger to her mouth, sucking gingerly to ease the sting.

**

A chorus of laughter rose up among the audience as Benedick stood centers stage, comically flummoxed by the news that Beatrice was in love with him. The rich, deep sound of her husband’s laughter was distinct among the crowd, but Eliza found herself too distracted to join in the general mirth. Alexander’s hand had rested on her knee at the beginning of the show, and had slowly been inching its way up her leg, his fingers brushing teasingly at her inner thigh through her gown.

“Alexander,” she whispered, unsure herself whether it was meant as a warning or a desirous plea. He smirked, but his eyes remained trained on the stage below. His hand inched up further, and she repeated, in a tremulous voice, “Alexander.”

“Shh,” he hushed her, though he finally glanced in her direction. Mischief lit his face.

He was clearly trying to drive her crazy.

And he was absolutely succeeding.

Adjusting in the cushioned seat, she decided the only way to stop his progress was to remove his hand from her leg entirely. She pushed her hand beneath his, tangled their fingers together, and shifted them both to Alexander’s knee instead. That worked for a time, and Eliza was able to properly enjoy Beatrice’s equally comical reaction to the eavesdropped conversation reporting Benedick’s love for her. Just as she found herself getting lost in the story, Alexander loosened his grip, and began drawing little circles in her palm, his touch feather light.

Ever so slowly, his hand began to move, his fingers tickling along the inside of her wrist, up her arm, coming to rest at the crook of her elbow. Her breath grew shallow, and her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation. She felt wholly ridiculous—there was nothing sensual about him touching the crevice of her elbow. And yet, there was.

He leaned in close beside her to lay a kiss on her neck.

The sudden applause rising up from the main seating area below their box startled her. When she opened her eyes, she saw the curtain had lowered for intermission. Alexander was watching her, far too pleased with himself by the look of him.

“Would you care for any refreshment?” he asked mildly, as though he hadn’t been attempting to drive her wild for the entire first half of the play. “They’re serving wine in the lobby. Or, if you’d prefer, we could always share a glass at home?”

“You want to leave? Now?” she asked, glancing around. “The play’s not over.” 

“Whatever you wish, my dearest.” He shrugged, tone annoyingly reasonable despite the smug little smirk on his face.

She sighed, glanced around once more to be sure no one was observing them too carefully, then agreed. “All right. Let’s go now.”

She’d never be able to resist him through the remaining acts anyway. They rose and made their way down the stairs, slipping through the lobby largely unnoticed and pausing only to collect their cloaks before stealing out into the cold winter’s night. As Alexander signaled for their coach, she snuggled into his side for warmth.

“You know, you have a terrible propensity for leaving shows before the end. It’s a wonder you know the endings of any plays,” she observed. She she’d met him, she couldn’t recall a single play they’d watched through together from beginning to end: if he wasn’t called away on business, he was tempting her into dark corners of the playhouse. “I’d wager you’ve not once watched Hamlet’s death scene.”

“Hamlet dies at the end?” The exclamation was so shocked and horrified that she almost believed him. Glancing up at him, only the quirk of his lips, just visible in the light of the flickering streetlamp, gave away the jest. She nudged him in the ribs gently.

“Silly goose.” He laughed. Seeing him in such good spirits made for a welcome change, and she felt her heart fluttering in her chest, giddy as a schoolgirl in the first blushes of infatuation.  

“Watch the ice,” he cautioned as he assisted her up into the coach, heaving himself up after her. She cuddled close to him again as he directed the driver to take them home, the coach wheels clattering on the cobblestones towards Market Street. His lips were close to her ear when he whispered, “Did I tell you how astonishingly beautiful you look tonight?”

“You did,” she said, smiling. “By your actions if not your words.”

“You are utterly irresistible.”

She shook her head at his exaggerated praise. “I wanted to thank you again for my gift.”

“I thought you’d enjoy that. I was worried Peggy might have disposed of it, but she assured me it was preserved in a readily accessible location. In fact, she was rather loathe to part with it, as it was guaranteed to make her laugh uncontrollably even on her darkest days.”

Laughing, Eliza assured him, “She loves you. Teasing is how she shows it.”

“I love her, too,” he replied. “Even though she made a very poor ally in my campaign to win your heart.”

“You didn’t need allies. Your battle was won almost before it started.”

“Is that so?” His lips hovered tantalizingly close to hers, his breath hot against the freezing chill of winter. She nodded and crooked her arm around his neck to pull him closer. Her fingers tangled in his queue, and she played absently with the ribbon at the nape of his neck as she kissed him, slow and sweet, all the way back home.

Their house was aglow when they dismounted the coach, the sound of children’s laughter carrying out to the street. Alexander frowned in thought for a moment, then seized her hand and began to walk down the sidewalk, his boots crunching along the well crushed snow. She followed, but asked, “Where are we going?”

“The Treasury office,” he answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Had he forgotten something there? Was his mind on his work even as she kissed him? And why on earth would he take her with him on such an errand, when she could go inside their house and get warm? Her thoughts spun as they made their way across the short distance to the Treasury building.

Alexander took her down the alleyway to the back entrance, fishing out the key with his free hand as they went. The alley and door were pitch black, but he managed to unlock the door with little fuss. Inside, the halls were equally dark and chilled, but he quickly lit a candle, and called, “Is anyone here?”

His call echoed back to them, the rooms all dark and quiet. He grinned and beckoned her on towards his office. “Come on.”

“Sweetheart, what—”

“I want to be alone with you,” he explained. “This seemed the best place.”

A fond smile stretched her cheeks.

He unlocked his office door and urged her on, locking it again once they were both inside. He immediately set to starting a fire, adding a few logs from a nearby pile. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She looked around and saw only two rather uncomfortable chairs to sit in—hardly conducive to the romantic atmosphere she wanted to encourage. She levied herself up onto his desk instead, pushing aside a large stack of papers awaiting his attention. “Why, Mr. Secretary,” she said coyly, “What an impressive office you have.”

He looked back at her with a quizzical smile, the fire already consuming the kindling. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“So many papers,” she sighed, dragging a finger over the top of a pile. Her lips pouted flirtatiously. “You must be very important.”

He’d pushed up from his knees and collected the poker to encourage the flames to catch on the logs towards the back. His smile had dimmed, though, and he shook his head. “Don’t…don’t pretend like that. I just want you, Eliza.”

She frowned, left confused by his reaction to her playful banter. Even as she pulled her cloak closer in an unconsciously insecure gesture, she agreed, “All right, honey.”

The poker clattered on the hearth where he dropped it as came over to her. He wrapped his arms around her, his face pressed against her neck, almost as if he were trying to hide his expression. “I want you, Betsey,” he repeated. “Only you.”

“You have me, sweetheart. I’m right here.” She pet his hair soothingly, utterly perplexed by his suddenly altered mood. “I love you.”

He nodded and squeezed her against him. “I love you, too. More than anything.”

A desperation had creeped into his voice, a need to convince her. She didn’t understand why he suddenly needed the reassurance, but she sensed in her gut that he did, badly. Gently encouraging him up so she could see his face, she cradled his jaw in her hands.

“I know, honey,” she promised.

His tiny, uncertain smile broke her heart in a way she didn’t understand.

**

“Oh, he’s such a little darling, Mrs. Hamilton. Truly,” Elizabeth Wolcott praised the following afternoon as she sipped at her tea, watching baby Johnny lying on his tummy, his head wobbling and his tiny arms and legs jerking about in the air. Angelica and Fanny were both cooing over him, and he stared up at his sisters with equal fascination.

“He’s unusually calm for an infant,” Eliza remarked, smiling down at the baby as well. “He hardly ever cries, except when he wants his food. I wish you the same good fortune.”

Mrs. Wolcott soothed her hand along the side of protruding belly, fear and hope warring visibly in her eyes. The poor woman had lost two babes already, Eliza knew; she prayed her friend would need not bear the loss of another.  Mrs. Wolcott swallowed another sip of tea, smiled bravely, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Aha!” Alexander exclaimed from his crouched position on the floor of the parlor. A marble had rolled out of a carefully laid circle of thread and came to stop just by Eliza’s foot. She kicked it gently back towards the game currently captivating her husband, Alex, Jamie, and Mr. Wolcott.

“Are you winning, my love?” she inquired fondly.

He was down on all fours, his head close to the ground to try to measure his next shot, with Jamie’s pudgy, chocolate-smeared hands clutching at the back of his waistcoat to better see the action. A grin was affixed to Alexander’s face. “I am,” he reported.

“Not for long,” Alex insisted, scooting around on his knees to size up the circle himself. “I’m going to win Papa!”

“Me too!” Jamie exclaimed.

“We can’t both win,” Alex huffed at his little brother.

“I want to win,” Jamie whined.

A knock on the door interrupted the exchange. Alexander tensed visibly, sitting up and dislodging Jamie’s hold on him as he adjusted his waistcoat. Mr. Wolcott, too, seemed to sit straighter in his chair, and almost holding his breath.

“Oh, honey, don’t get up from your game,” Eliza said, confused by the peculiar reaction. They weren’t expecting visitors, as far as she knew, and she’d happily send on their way any of the numerous favor-seekers who demanded her husband’s attention night and day. “I’ll see who it is, and tell them you’re engaged at the moment.”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Their maid swept into the room with a little silver tray held aloft. “The Speaker of the House is here to see you, with Mr. Venable and Mr. Monroe. I have their cards for you.”

“That’s not necessary, Mary, thank you. The gentlemen are expected. Would you show them into my office?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s Saturday,” Eliza reminded him as he rose carefully from the floor and reached for his coat. “You’re meant to be enjoying time with your family.”

“I know,” he replied, his smile a touch queasy. “This is a…a very urgent matter. We shouldn’t be too long. Mr. Wolcott?”

“Coming, sir,” Wolcott said, rising himself and standing supportively beside her husband, not the least bit confused or surprised by what was happening.

So this was why he’d invited the Wolcott’s for dinner, she realized. He’d had this meeting planned all along—he simply hadn’t deigned to share it with her. Guilt swam in his eyes as he met her hardening gaze. “I’ll be back soon, my angel. I promise.”

She sighed and nodded coolly, unhappy but hardly in a position to protest. The two men disappeared down the hallway, leaving Jamie and Alex to squabble amongst themselves over the abandoned game. Resuming her seat beside Mrs. Wolcott, she tried to paste on smile for her guest’s benefit. “More tea?”

Hours passed by, but the gentlemen showed no sign of returning from the office. Eliza finally offered to lend Mrs. Wolcott their coach so she could go home to rest, which she gratefully accepted. The children were brought upstairs, bathed, and read stories in their beds, all without her husband.

When she finally heard her husband’s footsteps outside their bedroom door, she was in bed herself, with her attention focused on a novel. Their bedroom door clicked shut behind him, but she refused to look up. “I’m beginning to find your promises rather cheap, Mr. Hamilton.”

He didn’t respond.

She looked at him at last, and felt her simmering anger fade to nothing at the abject misery in his expression. She set the book aside. “Sweetheart? What happened?”

He shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Crawling onto the bed beside her, he curled his arm around her waist, and drew her close against him. She rolled towards him, returning the embrace, but pressed again, “Sweetheart?”

“They believed I was embezzling money from the Treasury,” he reported, his voice flat.

For one terrible moment, she wondered, was it possible? The money they suddenly had, his guilt, his nightmares. He seemed to read the glimmer of doubt on her face, and his expression grew impossibly more wounded.

“I didn’t.”

“Of course not,” she replied immediately, her tongue tripping over itself in a rush to reassure him that she remained firmly on his side. “Of course you didn’t. You’re too good a man to do anything of the sort.”

His eyes squeezed shut as if he were in physical pain. She held him, hating herself for ever doubting him, even for a second. And after she’d promised him not to give a second thought to the hateful rumors spread by the opposition. “It’s all right, my love. I believe you, and so will everyone else worthy of our regard. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

“I’m sorry, Eliza,” he whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”

“For what, honey?”

He held her tighter, but made no further explanation.

Later that night, he woke beside her with a choked scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Alexander Hamilton to Margarita Schuyler, February 1780.   
> **See also, James Monroe and Abraham Venable, 13 December 1792 and Alexander Hamilton to James Monroe, Frederick Muhlenberg, and Abraham Venable, 17 December 1792. 
> 
> Hamilton knew from Maria Reynolds and Oliver Wolcott that Reynolds had been arrested and was trying to get a deal by giving information about the Treasury Secretary. The affidavits regarding what had happened and Muhlenberg, Venable, and Monroe’s intentions were all dated December 13th, but the meeting seems to have been delayed to the 15th. The gap for their anniversary is somehow both despicable and heart-breaking. I imagine Ham being particularly solicitous and tender towards Eliza, while she would have been confused, worried, and outraged on his behalf for the allegations being raised against him. 
> 
> Also, #Yay Hamlet :)


	17. Hamilton, June 1793

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: description of a panic attack

**June 1793**

Adjusting to sit up further in bed, Hamilton hastily dipped his quill into a precariously balanced inkwell and continued scrawling, “ _It has become necessary to the security of the essential interests of the Union that all true patriots, all sincere lovers of peace, all real friends_ —”1

A sudden, sharp intake of breath, followed quickly by a loud thump, startled him from his latest tirade on America’s toxic attachment to the bloody French revolt, upsetting the inkwell in the process. His gaze flickered up to see Eliza standing in the doorway to their bedroom, her hand to her breast, and a basket of laundry overturned on the floor before her. Thick black lines of ink were snaking down the rest of the page, and little droplets flecked his hand and shirt. No matter, he thought, righting the bottle and shifting the desk to the floor to keep from staining the bed. The article was only meant as an outlet for his impotent rage; it would only have joined the others in his desk drawer.  

“You startled me,” Eliza said. “I didn’t know you were home.”

He smirked at her as he rose, pulling the ink stained garment over his head and heading towards the dressing room. “I live here, too, you know.”  

“That’s debatable,” she retorted, stooping to collect the spilled clothing. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you in daylight, I was beginning to forget what you look like.”

She was teasing, he knew, but her voice held an edge of frustration. Between the Congressional investigations into his use of foreign loans, the madness of the bloodthirsty, warmongering French sympathizers, and the newly arrived French minister, Citizen Genet, he’d barely time enough in the day to eat and sleep, never mind see his family. He paid her a weary, weak smile, and parried back, “And you were so startled by the reminder of my handsomeness that you threw down your laundry basket in delight?”

Her eyes rolled towards heaven, but the smile tugging at her lips was genuine. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

He laughed. “You don’t need to sound quite so sarcastic.”

As she righted the basket and slid it towards the dressing room behind him, she eyed him curiously. “I’m usually tipped off to your presence by the line of clerks stretching down Market Street. What are you doing at home, and without your entourage?”

“I told Wolcott to lock the door to my office and claim I was in a very important meeting. I had a trying morning, and my stomach has been disagreeing with me all day.” He placed a hand over his bare midsection to emphasize the point, using his other to dig through the dresser drawer for a clean shirt. A sour stomach was nothing new for him, but it had been making enough of a nuisance of itself today that he’d relented and headed for home when his morning meeting had finally concluded.

A frown had drawn Eliza’s eyebrows close together when he looked back at her. “With all that rich food and terrible tavern fare you’ve been consuming instead of dining with us, I suppose it’s no wonder that your stomach is complaining.”

“That can’t be helped,” he sighed, tugging the new shirt overhead. “Besides, I think it’s more stress than anything.”

“Let me guess—Jefferson? Giles? Or, perhaps, the illustrious Citizen Genet?” Her arms slid around him after he’d finished tucking the fresh shirt into place. He gave contended sigh at the sensation of her lips pressing against his jaw.

“All of the above.”

Not to mention being accosted by his former clerk, Andrew Fraunces, demanding payment on an old security certificate. Even after he’d surrendered and offered to do the man the favor of cashing it in before the proper time, he’d continued to be a thorn in his side.

“I have no interest in accepting payment outside the mode you’ve officially adopted, sir,”2 Fraunces had replied to his offer with haughty distain. “You’ve troubles enough without my adding to your…sins.” The hesitation had been pregnant with sinister knowledge.

Hamilton’s heartbeat had quickened with fear, wondering just what his disgruntled clerk thought he knew.  

His mother had always told him that confession was good for the soul, but having poured out his secrets to the three Congressmen last December had only made him feel worse. And when he’d heard that Maria had hired Aaron Burr to represent her in her divorce from detestable Reynolds, he’d felt more rotten still. The circle of those who knew of his disgrace seemed ever widening; he lived in mortal dread of the day it reached his wife. Worst of all, despite having told them everything, the Jeffersonians seemed determined to believe it was financial misconduct, not infidelity, at the root of the infernal business. The investigations into the Treasury dragged on, with Congress demanding an endless stream of reports on every topic he’d ever pondered in his time as Secretary.

Perhaps, he considered as he squeezed his wife against him, it wasn’t the act of confession, so much as to whom it was he had confessed. But he recoiled at the thought of burdening his wife with his sin. It would only bring her pain, he told himself, only cause more injury and hurt where there needn’t be any. Was the constant guilt, the sincere remorse, the punishing Congressional investigation not enough penance for his crime?

 “You look tired,” Eliza observed, drawing him from his wandering thoughts.

“I am. Very,” he grunted, craning his neck slightly to kiss her again. His hands slid down the back of her blue satin gown, cut in the latest French style. When he pulled back, he took notice of Eliza’s hairstyle, also notably French in fashion. Frowning, and wishing to probe without offending, he remarked, “You look nice?”

Her head cocked to one side. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“I didn’t mean…It’s just, you look very…French.”

“Well, it seemed only appropriate.” Amusement sparkled in her dark eyes. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, like she was confiding a secret. “You see, I’ve decided to join the Jacobins in their bid to violently overthrow our American government, now that they’ve found such success in France.”

He gave her a look of mock severity. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I am funny. You just can’t appreciate it because it’s at your expense.” She looked far too pleased with herself as she reached up to bop him in the nose with her forefinger. He stuck his tongue out at her in response, which made her laugh. Sobering, she explained, “I went to see Madame Noel and her children on Mulberry Street, as you suggested.3 As I’m rather hopeless with the French language, I thought my dress could at least be familiar to her. I can’t imagine having to leave behind my family, my language, and my country as she has been forced to do.”

“Ah.” That made sense. The refugees from France had begun pouring in recently, many of them once grand ladies of society, now widowed and destitute in a foreign land. He’d jotted down a list of women he’d heard were in particular need, and handed it off to Eliza. She always seemed to know best what to do in these sorts of situations. “And how was Madame Noel?”

“Distraught,” Eliza replied. “Her husband is gone, and she has seven children to bring up on her own, with a little orphan girl besides. I gave her another twenty dollars to help clear her debt, at least.”

“That’s good.”

“I knew you’d approve.” She pecked him on the lips again, then started to pull away. “I should change into something a little more American before I leave, though, I suppose. I wouldn’t want people to think I was supporting the Jacobins behind your back.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“Tea with Mrs. Washington.”

“Do you have to go?”

“Why wouldn’t I go?”

He gave her a pleading look. “Because I’m home.”

 “I have things to do, Alexander. I don’t just sit around all day waiting for you to grace me with your presence.” The edge of frustration was back in her tone.

“I know that.” Of course he did. She was always paying social calls, arranging dinners, working with charities, and greeting visiting dignitaries in his stead, all while managing their growing brood. With his constant absence, he sincerely doubted that he figured much into her daily calendars at all. “I’d just hoped to steal a little time together this afternoon.”

She softened. “I won’t be long. Mrs. Washington likes to keep her receptions short, and besides, I’ll need time to get ready for the soiree at the Binghams tonight.”

He groaned. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“I could write with our regrets, if you’re not feeling up to it.” The crinkle of concern was back in her brow, and she reached out to squeeze his arm. “Are you feeling that unwell?”

“No, it’s all right. I need to at least make an appearance.” He brightened slightly as he remembered, “I didn’t tell you. I had a letter from Ned Stevens, my old friend from Saint Croix. I’ve told you about him?”

She nodded.

“He’s moved to Philadelphia. Apparently he’s just remarried. I haven’t had a free moment to see him, but he’ll be at the Binghams tonight as well.”

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” she said, looking genuinely pleased. “I’m excited to meet him. I feel I know him already from all your stories of when you were boys.”

“I can’t wait to introduce you.”

With a quick kiss, she made to shoo him from the room. “Out. I need to get ready, or I will actually be late.”

He obliged, sidestepping past her to exit the tight space. The soft shuffle of her dress being removed carried out to where he leaned against her vanity. “Are you bringing the children with you?”

“No. Johnny is with his nurse, Jamie and Alex are at their lessons, and Angelica and Fanny have their music master coming soon. They won’t disturb you, I hope?”

“It’s fine,” he assured her.

“If you’re not too busy, I’m sure they’d be thrilled to spend a little time with you. We’ve all been missing you terribly.”

“I know. It’s this damn Congressional investigation. The more information I give them, the more they demand to see. And given that what they’re trying to prove doesn’t exist, I don’t expect they’ll be satisfied until they’ve reviewed every piece of paper to which I’ve set a quill. Perhaps not even then. And now with Fraunces threatening me—” He bit his tongue, his foul temper carrying him towards dangerous ground.

“Fraunces? The clerk you dismissed?” Eliza appeared in the doorway, clad in only her underpetticoat. “What do you mean, threatening you? What does he want?”

“Money. He has some matured securities he wants to cash in before they’ve been properly reviewed.”

She looked very concerned. “How is he threatening you? You’re not in danger, are you?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He’s just threatening to spread stories about me. The usual rubbish and nonsense.”

“Surely no one will believe a disgruntled former clerk with an obvious motive to lie?”

“Any source can appear trustworthy when it confirms what someone already wants to believe.”

She shook her head in disgust, but turned back to finish dressing.

**

He laid down for a while more after Eliza left, hoping to sleep off the last of his digestive discomfort. The muted sound of a piano carried up to the bedroom, a monotonous, continuous loop of the same eight or so measures, which signaled the presence of the music master. When the loop at last desisted, he heard the blessed sound of his little angels giggling, and finally rose to go downstairs.

The piano started again when he was halfway down the staircase. Too many notes vied for dominance, creating an off-putting, discordant sound. Jamie’s high voice joined the cacophony. “You’re not good.”

“I am, too,” Fanny snapped.

“Nuh-uh,” Jamie taunted.

“Shut up!”

“I’m actually trying to practice,” Angelica interjected, though the plea was nearly swallowed by the frightful wail let out by baby Johnny. The children’s fighting must have woken him from his nap. Something hit the piano, mashing the keys so they rang out hollow and all at once.

Coming through the doorway to the parlor, he found Fanny and Jamie wrestling upon the ground, the nurse frantically trying to calm the baby, Angelica resting her forehead upon the piano, and his poor, patient Alex in his little chair, trying desperately to read his book in the middle of all the chaos. He couldn’t contain his laughter at the mayhem. His little angels, indeed.

“What’s going on in here?”

The children froze, all but little Johnny, who yet had no fear of punishments. Jamie sat up from his sister, shoved his hair back from his face, and with perfect sincerity, claimed, “I didn’t start it!”

“No?” He held his son’s gaze for a long moment. When Jamie shook his head stubbornly, he added, “So it wasn’t you who told your big sister that she was bad at the piano?”

Jamie’s jaw slackened in disbelief. With wide-eyed awe, he asked, “How did you know that?”

“I know everything,” he explained, doing his best to keep a straight face.

“Whoa.”

He swallowed down a laugh, fighting hard to keep the amusement from his expression. “I want you to apologize, give your sister a hug, and then the two of you can go outside to play for a while. Work off some of that energy. I think the pins are still out in the yard for a game of skittles, if you like.”

“Will you come out to play, too, Papa?” Jamie asked.

“Maybe in a little while.” That earned him a big grin. Jamie gave Fanny a hug, the sibling squabble repaired as easily as it had started.

If only he could manage Congress so easily.

When the pair had run off to play, he took Johnny from the nurse, and, patting the baby’s back gently, turned his attention to Alex. “Would you like to take your book upstairs, my dear fellow? I don’t think you’ll find much peace down here.”

Alex gave him a relieved half smile as he made to scurry off with his book. He paused in the entry, glancing back, and asked sweetly, “Are you feeling better, Papa? Mama said you were home because you felt unwell.”

“Much better, and all the more for seeing you all,” he assured him. “Thank you, my sweet boy.”

Alex grinned, turned, then thundered up the stairs towards his bedroom.

Hamilton gave the nurse permission to depart to see to her other duties, then sat down on the piano bench beside his daughter, Johnny now bouncing contentedly upon his knee. “And what is it that’s troubling you, my little Geli bug?”

Angelica gestured despairing at the sheet music before her. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted. “There are too many notes, and my fingers can’t reach to all the keys at once.”

Squinting, he leaned forward to better make out the measures marked with a charcoal pencil. There did appear to be too many notes stuffed between the black bars, and they ascended up over the measure in a dizzying pattern. He played tolerably well, but this was far beyond his abilities.

“Why don’t we try a minuet instead? Hm?”

Angelica appeared wary at the offer. “My teacher said I have to work on this for next lesson.”

He was already balancing Johnny as he dug around for a more enjoyable piece of music. “I sign your teacher’s checks at the end of each week, and you can tell him I said we’re going to practice a minuet. The piano requires diligent practice, but playing it ought to be fun as well.”

His daughter’s wary look melted into a mischievous smile as he laid the new sheet over her assignment. Her spirits seemed to lift immediately as her fingers danced over the keys, her shoulders swaying lightly as she hummed along to the more familiar tune. He played along with one hand, the other steadying Johnny as he wiggled along to the song.

“He likes it,” Angelica noted, grinning down at her baby brother.

“Much more enjoyable, hm?” he queried the baby, pitching his voice up to catch his attention. Johnny gave him a gummy smile in return. “I thought so.”

He went on to teach Angelica a few bars of an old favorite dancing tune he and Mac had made up one chilly night at headquarters in Morristown, sitting at Mrs. Ford’s grand piano. He still remembered the words as well (raunchy wine-soaked lyrics invented by bored, twenty year old boys) but he pointedly left them out of the lesson. When the front door opened some time later, Johnny was pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat with single-minded interest, while he and Angelica sang along to the tune of Yankee Doodle.    

It was, perhaps, the most enjoyable hour he’d passed in several months.

“That doesn’t sound like work your music master would have set,” Eliza said, leaning against the doorjamb to the parlor with a tender expression.

“Papa said I could,” Angelica said immediately.

 “No harm in a rousing sing along,” he added, shifting around to smile at his wife.

She nodded agreeably, coming over to scoop Johnny up and kissing the top of his head in the process. “I take it you’re feeling better, my dearest?”

“I am,” he said. “Much better.”

“Once more from the top, then, Mr. Hamilton,” she ordered, lifting the baby up into the air and eliciting a squeal of delight. Angelica immediately repositioned her little fingers beside his, and they started again, all singing the silly song as loudly as they could.

**

He should have just stayed at home, he thought wistfully, sipping at his wine and doing his best to pay attention to the conversation around him. Violin music swelled nearby for the benefit of the dancing couples, making it nigh impossible to hear what anyone was saying to him. Not to mention that the Binghams’ ballroom felt unmercifully hot, and the rich food he’d been served now sat heavily in his gut.

He and Eliza had brought the children outside to join Fanny and Jamie in their game of skittles, teaming up boys against girls for several rounds. The girls had beaten them soundly, even with Eliza burdened by holding Johnny on one hip. He’d hated cutting their fun short to go ready for the ball.

Eliza smiled up at him when she noticed him watching her fondly. “What?”

Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

Her smile transformed to a grin.

“Ham!”

He glanced back at the familiar salutation. A figure was shoving his way through a crowd, one hand extended in the air in greeting. The large feather adorning a lady’s hair shifted when she moved to accommodate the figure, and Neddy’s old familiar face appeared.

“Ned!” Holding out the arm not bearing his wine, he turned from the circle around him and invited his friend in for a friendly embrace. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my dear friend.”

“You’re not an easy man to get a hold of,” Ned commented, clapping him on the back once before pulling away. “I tried to stop in spontaneously to your office when I first arrived. Your deputy nearly laughed in my face. Apparently your next available meeting is a month and a half from now.”

“Things are a bit hectic at the moment,” he apologized. “I’m not usually quite so pressed for time.”

“A party is a much more appealing location for our reunion than your crowded office, at any rate.” Ned clapped him on the shoulder again, grinning from ear to ear.

A hand rested on his opposite elbow, and he glanced over to see Eliza at his side, looking at him expectantly. “Ned, I don’t believe you’ve met my wife,” he introduced, smiling at her.

“Ah, of course, Mrs. Hamilton,” Ned said, bowing and pressing a kiss to Eliza’s hand. “A pleasure. You’re every bit as lovely as I thought you must be, to have stolen my good friend’s heart so thoroughly.”

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Dr. Stevens. I feel as if we’re old friends already, from all my husband has told me about your boyhood. Tell me, did you really throw him off a dock to teach him how to swim?”

Ned laughed merrily at the memory, though he gave Hamilton a sly look. “What a way to tell the story of how I saved your life, Ham. And I certainly wouldn’t call that thrashing about you did that day swimming.”

“You don’t get credit for saving my life when you’re the one who imperiled it in the first place.”

Ned laughed harder, the same loud, joyful belly laugh that used to bring Mrs. Stevens to scold them when they talked late into the night. His old friend’s expression softened with shared silent nostalgia. “God, it’s good to see you, Hammy. I always thought you’d come back home, you know, until I heard you’d been married.”

“I never intended to return. Not really. There was nothing left for me on Saint Croix.”

“Nothing except the people who love you.”

He raised his brow, challenging, “Name three.”

“James.” His amusement faded at his brother’s name. “He was so proud of you. You should have heard him bragging at the tavern of an evening. And the Reverend Knox, of course. He could hardly believe all the tales of your exploits on the battlefield.”

“They’re both gone now,” he noted, a tinge of melancholy impinging on his previous mirth.

“Annie’s still there. She bade me give you a kiss as soon as I saw you.”

The mention of his favorite cousin raised his spirits once more. “I don’t recall getting my kiss,” he observed.

“Too right,” Ned agreed, leaning in to give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “There now. My duty is complete.” Eliza adjusted her hold on his arm, grinning at the two of them. Ned’s attention returned to her. “I suppose I can’t fault you in staying, since you’d tricked this beautiful lady into pledging herself to you.”

“You flatter me, sir,” she charged, though she looked perfectly well disposed to being flattered.

As Eliza and Ned fell into easy conversation, a peculiar set of sensations began engulf him. His heart started racing for no apparent reason he could divine. Then his stomach turned sourly as a sharp pain ripped through his chest. He tried to pull in a breath, but the stale, hot air of the room seemed utterly devoid of oxygen. The candlelight in the chandeliers overhead seemed garishly bright suddenly, and the noise of the room felt overwhelming.

“What’s your specialty, Dr. Stevens?” Eliza was asking, seemingly oblivious to his sudden distress.

“My dissertation focused on gastric digestion.”

Eliza poked him pointedly in the stomach and raised her brows, clearly communicating that he ought to make an appointment with his old friend. He tried to force a smile at her in response. His breathing was labored.

Her hand stroked his arm lightly. “Are you all right, sweetheart? You look like you’re perspiring.”

“Fine,” he managed. “The room is just a little warm.”

“It is a bit stuffy,” Ned agreed. Eliza flicked her fan open and began to wave it gently, creating a blessed little breeze. The two of them watched him for another moment, before he waved them on.

Ned continued, “But I’ve been told my experience with Yellow Fever may be the most useful here in Philadelphia. It seems outbreaks are unfortunately common nowadays.”

“That is sadly true. I’m sure your services will be much appreciated. I usually bring our children to visit my parents in Albany when the season for sickness begins, although this year I think I might stay closer to home.”

Closer to home? He frowned, unsure what she meant by that, but too focused on trying to get in a breath to vocalize a different opinion. Another pain seized his chest, worse than the others. His heart felt liable to burst through his rib cage at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, pulling his arm away from Eliza and handing her his wine glass. “Would you both excuse me? I…I need some air.”

He pushed his way through the crowd towards the open doors leading out to the garden. A cold sweat started all over his body as he stumbled outside, pulling uncomfortably at his cravat as he went. Air. He needed air. He leaned against the exterior wall of the house, the brick rough against his palms, and tried in vain to regulate his breathing.

“Alexander?” Eliza had followed him. He felt her hand on his back, just beneath his shoulder blade. When he didn’t answer, she continued to press, “Honey? What’s the matter? Is it your stomach?”

“I think,” he gasped, removing a hand from the wall to press it against his chest, “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“What?”

“I can’t…I can’t breathe.” Panic seized him, fear and desperation making his voice grow ragged. “Eliza, I can’t breathe.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered under her breath as he sank down to his knees, still gasping. He felt her move away briefly, distantly heard her call for a doctor, before she knelt down at his side. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’ll be all right.”

“What’s wrong?” He’d hoped it would be Ned coming, but when he glanced to the side, he saw Benjamin Rush had answered Eliza’s call for help. A Jeffersonian. Wonderful. The good doctor Rush was as likely to speed him along to a meeting with his maker as to rescue him.

He closed his eyes and sank into the growing darkness.

**

“Alexander?”

Eliza’s head was resting on his chest, her ear pressed over his heart. A candle flickered on the bedside table, the soft golden light illuminating a tea tray and various bottles of medicines, the residue of his past day confined to bed. Moisture sparkled on his wife’s cheeks. She’d been crying again.

“I’m all right,” he whispered. With more effort than it ought to have taken, he shifted his hand from under the mound of thick blankets Eliza had wrapped him in to brush his thumb over her cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Everything’s all right now.”

Acute stress, Rush had diagnosed, once he’d managed to calm down enough to breathe properly again. Humiliation had warred with bone-aching weariness as he’d sat on the garden bench submitting to Rush’s insistent probing. Ned had followed quickly on Rush’s heels, and after concurring that Hamilton was in no immediate danger, he’d taken it upon himself to cordon off the area, turning away any curious onlookers.

“Your heart sounds like it’s beating faster than before,” Eliza observed, her fingers curling on his chest into the soft cotton fabric of his nightshirt. She pushed herself up and reached over to the table, moving cups and bottles aside until she’d found his pocket watch. He’d shifted the arm with which he’d been holding her to repose on the pillow, and she gently placed her fingers to the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. “How do I—?”

He turned slightly to the side, using his opposite hand to guide her fingers to the proper point to feel his pulse. Swallowing heavily, he explained, “Wait until the second hand is on the twelve, then count the beats until it reaches the six.”

She nodded. When the second hand reached the proper point, he heard her counting under her breath, her thumb stroking absently at his arm as she kept her gaze upon the watch for the full thirty seconds. “Thirty-eight,” she reported.

Multiplying by two in his head, he replied, “So about seventy-six beats per minute.”

“Is that good?”

“A little quick for a resting heart rate, but nothing to be concerned about,” he assured her.

She reached over him to place the watch back on the table, then curled up against him, her head returning to his chest. Her eyes fell shut as she adjusted to place her ear over his heart once more. She’d hardly left his side over the past day, treating him like a fragile piece of glass liable to break if not carefully monitored.

Ned had been the one to recommend getting out the city for a few days.4 “A good rest away from the press of business should do the trick,” he’d suggested as he helped Hamilton up into the coach to go home. Eliza had climbed in right behind him, and urged him to rest against her shoulder for the short drive back to the house.

She’d already picked out a house in the country, he learned that evening, as she hurriedly packed trunks for him and the children. Fair Hill, it was called, a charming little retreat just outside the city limits, where she and the children could stay this summer to be away from the heat and sickness. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you again,” she’d explained, so earnestly he couldn’t find it in himself to be cross with her. “We can afford it. I checked the accounts to be sure, before I made any inquiries.”

Early the next morning, he found himself bundled up in blankets in the back of a coach. Jamie had crawled into his lap for the journey, and Angelica had been permitted to sit beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as they rode along. “I’m all right, Geli bug,” he’d whispered, when he’d seen her peeking up at him with large liquid eyes. When they arrived at the house, though, he’d gone straight up to bed and stayed there all day, taking all his meals on a tray and sleeping on and off.

Eliza’s hand curled over his chest again, clutching at him as if holding him tighter might keep him tethered to this world. “I haven’t seen you like this since you came home from Yorktown,” she whispered, almost to herself. He stroked his hand down her back, hoping to bestow some comfort. He could hardly disagree.

“I suppose I’m fighting a different sort of campaign now,” he said. “I almost long for the days of the war, when the enemy was clear and the fronts were well defined. Now I feel like I’m besieged from all sides, with no respite to be found.”

“They’re killing you.”

“Not intentionally,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Though I’m sure my death would be a happy side benefit to the plot to exhaust and ruin me.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Alexander.”

“Can’t do what, my angel?”

“I can’t sit back and watch them kill you.”

“Eliza—”

“I mean it. I’ve tried—Lord knows, I’ve tried. I’ve been the supportive, dutiful wife. I’ve waited up for you through all the late nights. I’ve gone to endless balls and dinners, social gatherings of every stripe, promoting your causes whether you were at my side or not. I’ve sat by while you retreated into your own head, until you felt like a stranger wearing my husband’s face. All of this I’ve done for you, but I can’t watch you die, Alexander. I just can’t.”

He sighed heavily. “What would you have me do, Eliza?”

“Resign.” She breathed out the word, soft and full of desire, like she had thought it a thousand times before she’d voiced into the world.

The very idea of it should have made him angry. He should have been horrified that she’d ever make such a suggestion—his life’s work, his reputation, his chance for everlasting fame and glory hung in the balance—but all he felt was tired, weary to his very soul. He closed his eyes in thought.

“Let Jefferson win?” The question had no heat behind it.

“Yes,” she said. “Let him win.”

She made it sound so easy. Perhaps it was. His wise, worldly wife.

No one had faith in his policies anymore, it seemed. The whole country thought him a corrupt schemer. Why shouldn’t he leave? Go home to New York, spend time with his family, and try to recover his failing health?

Would it be penance enough, he wondered, to sacrifice his career, his fame, for Eliza’s happiness? Would the guilt finally leave him? Perhaps, at long last, he’d find the absolution he craved.

“I can’t leave until the investigation is completed.” He felt her take a soft, shuddering breath against him. “Once it’s done, once my name is cleared, then…perhaps, it’s time I stepped down.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ll write to President Washington when we return to the city, so he can start considering who to appoint in my place.”5 She looked up at him, her eyes filled with hope. “Let’s go home, Betsey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 On the Rise of a War Party, 1793. Hamilton seems to have been interrupted in the middle of a sentence, and he left this work uncompleted in a drawer.  
> 2 Alexander Hamilton to Andrew Fraunces , 10 June 1793, note 7, for more context surrounding the conversations between Fraunces and Hamilton.  
> 3 List of French Distress Persons, 1793.  
> 4 Though there is no evidence that Ned suggested it, Hamilton did leave Philadelphia for a few days in early June to recuperate from an illness. See Alexander Hamilton to Edmond Charles Genet, 4 June 1793: “Absence from Town, occasioned by circumstances of ill health, prevented me from receiving the letter, which you did me the honor to write me yesterday, till today.”  
> 5 Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 21 June 1793.
> 
> This chapter ran a little long, but there was a lot I wanted to pack in. William Branch Giles, acting as a mouthpiece for Jefferson in the House, began a Congressional investigation into Hamilton's Treasury in late 1792. The tight deadlines were designed to be impossible for Hamilton to meet, so that he would look guilty, like he was trying to hide information. He managed to meet every deadline--in fact, he finished about a week early, but the constant work came at a price. By January 1793, Hamilton's health was already suffering, to the point that he moved a meeting with Adams and Jefferson to his own house on January 15th "to accommodate the place to the indifferent state of Mr. Hamilton's health." By June 21st, he had written to Washington stating his intention to resign once the investigations were complete. (They wouldn't be finished for almost another year, though he was cleared of any wrongdoing in the end.) 
> 
> On top of this, the number of people who knew about the affair with Maria Reynolds was growing rapidly. The business with Andrew Fraunces is interesting as well, as he eventually teamed up with Jacob Clingman (Maria's new husband) to testify about Hamilton's corruption. The strain of keeping the secret was likely weighing on him as heavily as the impossible workload. 
> 
> And, of course, Ned had to make an appearance....


	18. Eliza, September 1793

**September 1793**

Eliza sat heavily on the chair before her vanity and squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to will away her growing headache. Even with Alexander sleeping in a separate bedroom, she hadn’t slept properly in days—it was no wonder she was getting a sore head. And the calendar switching to September had made no improvements to the unbearable summer heat they’d been enduring this year, so the sweat beading on her temple was only to be expected.

Nothing was wrong with her.  

The sound of labored breathing from behind her prompted her to look up. In the mirror, she saw a figure hovering just behind her, dressed all in white and pale to the lips. Her breath caught for a second, sure she was seeing an apparition, until, upon closer examination, realized the ghostly figure was in fact her husband.

“Sweetheart?” She spun around to face him, surprised. He’d been fast asleep when she’d left him mere minutes ago. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I need to tell her,” he mumbled to himself, taking a halting step closer. “She has to know.”

“Who has to know?” 

“She does.” He squinted at her, his red-rimmed eyes barely open, and then shook his head. “‘Liza?”

“It’s me,” she confirmed as she stood and put her hands on his shoulders to steady him. His whole body was trembling. He swayed slightly on his feet as she held him, their embrace a cruel parody of a dance.

“I need to tell you,” he rasped, clutching at her.  

“Tell me what?”

“About her.”

He seemed to be talking in circles. She nudged her nose against his, and in response, he tipped his forehead down to rest against hers, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was a gesture of affection or simply that he couldn’t support the weight of his head any longer. His breath was hot and sour against her face.

 “You wouldn’t stay if you knew. Do…do you know?” His too bright eyes seemed to be pleading with her, desperate to communicate something important.

“I’m sorry, honey. You aren’t making any sense.”

He swallowed heavily and raised his head again, looking around with confusion. “I don’t know…where…I can’t—”

“Shh. It’s all right. I’m right here. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m so cold.” The plaintive note in his voice broke her heart in two.

She drew him closer, running her hands down along the protruding  bones of his spine. Days of high fever had taken their toll on his body; he seemed to be wasting away in her arms. “Hush. Everything’s all right. Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.”

Bracing him, she led him back towards their bedroom. He helped as best he could, but he was shaking so badly he could hardly walk in a straight line. They were only a few steps into the hall when his foot went limp, turning sideways underneath him when he tried to take a step.

He collapsed to the ground in a heap.

“Doctor Stevens!” she called frantically, her knees slamming to the hard floor. Her hands went to his head first, feeling for bumps, though the intense heat of his skin and his sweat-soaked hair were so distracting, she could hardly say if anything was wrong. So, instead, she reached towards his chest, aching for the reassurance of the steady beat beneath her palm.   

He shoved her away roughly before curling in on himself.

She sat back on her haunches, stunned. It hadn’t hurt—he hadn’t strength enough to apply real force—but she felt tears stinging at her eyes all the same. He didn’t seem cognizant of his actions, nor of her distress. A pitiful moan fell past his lips.

Ned Stevens was just coming up the stairs when she’d shouted for him. He hurried forward to assist her husband, but his first words were directed towards her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Hamilton?”

“I’m…yes,” she answered. Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment, and she hastily brushed away the growing moisture. “He’s just never pushed me away like that before.”  

The physician’s expression was infinitely tender. “He’s confused and delirious, ma’am. He likely didn’t even know it was you touching him.”

Her face crumpled further; that was hardly a comfort. She wanted to reach for her husband, to kiss him and see the pure love reflecting back at her in his eyes the way it always had before. When her fingers brushed against his nightshirt, he whimpered and squirmed away again.

“Why don’t you go for a walk? I’ll get him in a bath to cool him down, and he’ll be more himself by the time you get back.” Sensing her hesitation, he added, “You can’t look after him if you don’t look after yourself.”

Forced to agree, she admitted, “Yes, I think you’re right, Doctor.  A walk would do me good, clear my head.”

Ned patted her consolingly on the shoulder, and scooted over to take her place at Alexander’s side as she pushed herself back up. Her head spun as she rose, forcing her to lean back against the wall for a long beat. When the world stilled around her once more, she turned, and took the stairs slowly, forcing herself to take deep, measured breaths as she went.

 Voices carried up from the entryway as she made her way downstairs. Their maid laughed brightly at the unknown visitor, in a way that made Eliza wonder if it was a beau of hers calling. The man at the door sounded pleased by her reaction, but his tone turned reluctantly serious as he remarked, “You’ll need to give that to your master right away. Mr. Nourse will be needing an answer when Mr. Hamilton comes to town tomorrow.”1

“Oh, I’m afraid Mr. Hamilton won’t be traveling tomorrow.” Mary’s voice lowered to a hushed whisper. “He has the fever.”

“Does he really?” The stranger sounded skeptical. “A fellow from the State Department had it from Mr. Jefferson himself that Mr. Hamilton was ill with only a minor autumnal fever. Mr. Jefferson says the only thing putting Mr. Hamilton in danger is his own excessive alarm.”2

Rage started in the pit of Eliza’s belly at the cruel words. How dare Jefferson say such vile, hateful things about her husband? Marching into the foyer, she was gratified to see the clerk’s face pale and his spine straighten at the sight of her. He nearly squeaked, “Good day, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She snatched the letter from the man’s outstretched hand, and in a tone dripping with contempt, said, “I’ll see this gets to my husband, if he should survive the day. Good day to you, sir.”

The young man scurried away with a hasty tip of his hat.

“I’m so sorry that you had to hear that, ma’am. I had no idea—”

“It’s all right, Mary.” Eliza held up a hand, forcing a smile to relieve the maid of her anxieties. That Mary hadn’t fled at the first sign of illness in the house was all the test of loyalty Eliza needed from her.  “Would you fetch my cloak for me, please? I think I’ll take a walk.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Mary agreed with a quick curtsy. Before she moved to comply, however, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Only then did Eliza realize that tears had started falling again.

“Thank you,” she said as she took the clean linen and wiped at her cheeks.

Mary brushed away the thanks, her expression full of compassion.

When Mary brought over her cloak, Eliza wrapped around her shoulders gratefully, chilled where she’d been too warm only minutes ago. Ominous dark clouds filled the sky, the scent of an approaching storm heavy in the air. She crossed the porch and lowered herself down onto the steps, fatigue and the threatening rain enough to change her mind about the walk. The fresh air alone would have to do.

The wheels of a cart creaked along the road that ran past their rented retreat. Glancing up, she made out a bare foot lolling out of the back of the cart before she quickly turned her head away. As the cart went past, she could hear the distinct buzzing of flies, and felt vaguely nauseous.

How she wished this were all a nightmare.

The rage she’d felt towards Jefferson had been triggered at least in part by guilt, she admitted to herself, leaning her head against the railing. The prevailing fever that swept through the city had terrified her husband for weeks. When she found him in his office with his head cradled in his hands last Tuesday, she’d cooed and comforted him as always, but privately, she’d been sure he was worried for nothing.

“I have the most frightful headache, Betsey,” he’d complained, tilting his head slightly to look at her. “And I’m so nauseated. I think I might have—”

“It’s just stress,” she’d interrupted. Of course it was just stress, she reasoned. The Jeffersonians in Congress refused to leave off their investigations, forcing him to continue trying to clear his name despite his resolution to resign. At that moment, he’d been in the middle of a letter to Mrs. Greene, begging her to help him refute the latest trumped up charges from his disgruntled former clerk.3 Resting her hands on his shoulders, she’d begun to knead his tense muscles. “You’ve been working too hard. Stay home with us for a few days and rest. You’ll be better in no time.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he’d agreed.

But the fear never left his eyes. 

He’d downplayed his growing symptoms, even as it became painfully obvious what was happening to him. On Wednesday, he’d come to join her on the porch to watch the children playing in the yard with a blanket wrapped tightly around him. He’d leaned his head against her shoulder, and commented, “It’s getting cold finally.”

The afternoon had been muggy and warm, but she’d merely rested her head against his and agreed. “Yes. I suppose it is.” 

Even when he’d started vomiting on Thursday morning, he’d still tried to keep up a front of good humor, collapsing back into bed beside her and giving her a wry smile. “Aches, pains, morning sickness. You know, I think I might be with child.”

She’d laughed dutifully and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Those are the symptoms. And it’s certainly your turn.”

She recognized now that she’d been in a state of deep denial. The idea of her husband contracting such a deadly disease had simply been too foreign to accept. She hated that through all that time he’d been so sick and scared, he’d known she hadn’t believed him.

By Friday, he’d been too weak to get out of bed. He grew more listless and confused as the day wore on, sweating and shaking as his fever rose ever higher. His voice shook as he begged her to send the children away.

“Please, Betsey,” he’d pleaded, limp against the pillows, his face sallow and shining with sweat. “You need to take the little ones next door. I couldn’t bear it if they sickened because of me. Please.”

Her gaze drifted to the neighbor’s house across the way.

“I want Papa,” Jamie had demanded, nose running and tears sliding down his cheeks, when she’d told they’d be leaving without her and Alexander.

Pip, still so young even with his gangly limbs and pimple spotted face, had hoisted Johnny onto his hip and taken Jamie by the hand. “Don’t be scared, Jamie. It’ll be fun, like an adventure.” Her brave boy had glanced back at her, though, expression tense and fearful. She’d smiled and waved, trying to pretend that things weren’t as dire as they seemed.

The shutters were all drawn now, the house closed up now that the occupants had fled for safer ground. Her children, too, had been sent on to safety, up to Albany to stay with her parents until the sickness had past. She felt their absence keenly.

A raindrop hit her nose.

She sighed, and pulled herself up to go back into the house.

Ned was fussing with some of the bottles on the nightstand when she entered the bedroom. The bathtub was set up near the fireplace, but Alexander was resting in bed again, dressed in a fresh nightshirt with the blankets drawn up to his chest. Nodding to the bed with a weary smile, Ned whispered, “He had a quick bath and some more of the brandy to settle his stomach. He’s drowsy, but he seems a little more coherent now.”

Eliza sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to feel Alexander’s forehead. His eyes fluttered open at her touch. “Hi,” he rasped.

“Hi,” she whispered back, smoothing his hair back fondly.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Ned commented, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him with a soft snap.

“I was dreaming,” Alexander muttered.

She smiled. “What were you dreaming about?”

“The ocean. I was swimming in the clear turquoise water. My mother was there; she was laughing and happy, calling to me to swim out to her. It was so peaceful.”

The dream was somehow terrifying to her, but she forced her voice to stay steady. “That sounds beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Mm,” he hummed, drifting back towards sleep.   

Rain was pattering against the windows now, the pattern rhythmic and soothing. Her own eyelids felt heavy. Perhaps a nap might help with the pounding in her temples and the queasy feeling that had taken hold of her stomach, she considered. Drawing her feet up, she curled up against her husband’s side and fell quickly into a deep sleep. 

**

The awful creaking of the wagon wheels met her ear as she stood over a slim, deep hole in the earth. Rain poured down from the heavens, soaking her to the bone and making her shiver. When the wagon came to a stop, she looked back to see the same foot as earlier lolling off the back. Two men jumped down and moved around the cart, roughly hauling out their burden. The body swung between them as they carried him towards the hole.

Squinting, she realized she recognized the dead man.

“Stop,” she rasped. “No. That’s my husband. He’s not dead. He can’t be. Please, please stop!”

The men brushed past her and brusquely swung her beloved husband into the hole.

“No,” she cried, leaning forward to try to make out his form in the darkness. “You can’t. He’s not dead.”

Then, quite suddenly, she felt hands grabbing at her, lifting her from the ground.

“You next,” someone hissed in her ear.

She screamed as she plummeted down into the earth. Instead of hitting hard ground, she found herself submerged in icy water. The rain must be filling the hole, she thought, terrified, scraping at the earth around her. Everything was dark, and she felt so cold, so confused.

“Alexander?” she whimpered, watering splashing all around her as she searched for him. “Please, I need you.”

“I’m here, Betsey.”

Her head whipped from side to side, desperately hunting for the source of the voice in the darkness. “Alexander?”

“I’m right here.”

She was still surrounded by darkness, but she noticed a candle not far away, casting a small circle of golden light around the nightstand and the bed nearby. Shivering, she looked down and saw her body submerged in the bathtub.

“Everything’s all right,” Alexander whispered. He was kneeling beside her, his fingers tangled in her hair, and he leaned over to press a tender kiss to her forehead.

She threw her arms around him to hug him close, heedless of the water spilling out the tub and soaking his nightshirt as a result. “You died. You left me. They were trying to throw you away,” she babbled.

“Shh. It was only a dream,” he cooed.

“But it felt so real.”

“It’s the fever. It plays tricks on you. Just rest, let the cool water do its work.”

The fever? Did she have a fever? She wished the pounding in her head would recede for a just moment so she could think clearly.

Lightning lit up the bedroom for a brief second, followed quickly by a crash of thunder. Her head felt like it was about split from the terrible pressure. She moaned and clutched at her husband even tighter. “Oh, my head.”

“I have some medicine for you, Mrs. Hamilton, if you think you can hold it down.” Ned appeared on her other side, holding a cup. “It’s some of same the Peruvian bark I’ve been giving to your husband.”

The promise of relief from the headache was perhaps the only thing that could have convinced her to let her husband go. Alexander broke away from her as soon as she loosened her grip on him. With shaking hands, she slowly lifted the cup to her lips, watching from the corner of her eye as her husband crawled the short distance towards the chamber pot. Once there, he gave an awful sounding retch that nearly had her vomiting as well. She held the cup away from herself and turned her head, taking deep, deliberate breaths.

Ned rose and went to kneel beside Alexander. When the retching finally stopped, he whispered, “Come on, Ham, let’s get you back to bed.”

“No.”

“You need rest. I’ll mix up some more of the chamomile and peppermint to ease the nausea, and give you a little laudanum to help you sleep.”

“Not yet,”  he insisted. “Not until she’s out of danger.”

“Ham,” Ned sighed.

“Not yet.” He crawled back towards her and kneeled once again at her side. His palm smoothed over her forehead, his hand cool against her burning flesh. Lightning flash across the room once more, lighting his frustrated expression along with the ghastly, sallow color of his face. “I can’t tell…How bad is it?”

“She’s feverish,” Ned answered, “But it’s not so high as yours has been. With luck, she’s contracted a less severe case.”

“It seems severe enough.” His hand lifted from her head.

“Alexander,” she groaned, reaching towards him feebly. She needed him, needed to feel his touch, to have him close. “Don’t go. It hurts.”

“I know, my love,” he whispered, reaching out again to brush his hand through her hair. “I know it does. I’m so sorry. I never should have permitted you to stay with me.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” she insisted. Even now, with the fever ravaging her, she didn’t regret staying. How could she have lived with herself if she had left him, and he had died alone? Her strength ebbing, she relaxed back against the tub. Alexander took the cup from her, and placed his hand in hers instead. She smiled, squeezing it tightly, and assured him, “Whatever happens, at least we’re together.”

“We’re going to be fine,” he promised, holding the cup to her lips. “Now take your medicine.”   

 **

The second week of September had dawned mercifully cool and bright. Although she and Alexander remained horribly weak and fatigued, Ned’s steady, soothing treatments had seen them well on their way to recovery. When Ned had smiled and assured them both that they were officially out of danger, she’d sent a prayer of thanks to God for his tender mercy in preserving her husband and ensuring her children would not yet know the pain of being orphaned.

The scratching of a quill woke her from a light nap. She turned on her side and saw Alexander sitting up with his lap desk, scrawling words across a page with focused concentration. Stretching, she yawned and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter,” he said, attention still focused on his task.

“To whom?”

“The College of Physicians, recommending Ned’s treatment for the fever.”4

She frowned. Bright golden sunlight streamed through the window of the bedroom. She scrutinized him in the light: the lingering dark circles around his eyes, his pale lips, the ghastly color of his skin. At least that sickly yellow color had faded from his complexion, she consoled herself. “Can’t that wait until you’ve more of your strength back?”

“People are dying. Ned’s treatment might help halt the fever in its tracks, and stop the exodus from the capital. It’s my duty to report it.”

 “Are you almost done?” she asked.

He finally looked at her, his expression soft. “Just a few more lines.”

Good to his word, another minute more and he was signing his name at the bottom of the page, the flourish of his ‘H’ immediately recognizable.  Setting the desk down beside the bed, he turned onto his side and adjusted closer to her, his arm settling on her waist protectively. She pressed close to him, his warmth welcome on the crisp autumn morning. Their limbs were tangled in a comforting jumble. “This is nice,” she remarked.  

He hummed in agreement, but she thought he sounded distracted.

Giving him a gentle squeeze, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Betsey, did I…say anything while I was ill?”

She didn’t quite know what he was getting at. “You said a lot of things, honey.”

“Anything odd, or distressing?” he pressed.

“You were delirious. It was all pretty distressing.”

“Everything’s so foggy. I just…I thought I had….” He trailed off.

The memory of him standing behind her, desperately trying to communicate some important message flashed into her mind. She cupped his jaw with her hand, and asked gently, “Is there something you need to tell me, sweetheart?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking absently along her hip. Then he heaved a long sigh, and muttered, “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.”

“Forgive yourself for what?”

“I could have killed you.”

“None of this was your fault, Alexander. You didn’t want to get sick, and you certainly didn’t intend to pass it to me,” she tried to reason with him. “If anything, I’m sorry. I should have believed you when you said you were coming down with the fever.”

He looked pained at the words. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Not ever. You’re perfect, Betsey.”

“That’s not true.”

He gave a dismissive little grunt in response. She could feel him pulling away from her, retreating into his own thoughts. She hated when he did that, hated the yawning distance it created between them. Guilt was still painted across his face, plain as if he’d written it in ink on his forehead; the wrinkle it created in his brow was becoming all too familiar.

“We’re alive, and we’re together. That’s all that matters,” she told him. “I love you.”

“I know you do, but—”

“I love you,” she interrupted, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.” She whispered the words so many times they began to lose their meaning, punctuating each phrase with a kiss to his jaw, his nose, his forehead.  She repeated the words until they seemed to be swirling through the air around them; she hoped they’d sink into his skin and remain there forever. He laughed, scrunching his face and pressing into his pillow as she adjusted over him to kiss him more. “I love you. Have I said it enough for it to penetrate that thick head of yours?”

Relaxed against the pillow beneath her, he gave her a challenging little smirk. “No.”

She obligingly began to repeat the process, kissing him over and over, their laughter ringing through the room like music.

“What is going on in here?” Ned asked, standing in the doorway. His expression flickered from stern to amused. “If you two can’t rest quietly, I’ll have to separate you.”

Alexander gave a great snort of amusement. “You got us in trouble,” he whispered to her, before he was overcome with the most beautiful belly laugh Eliza had ever heard. It was utterly contagious, and she found herself laughing as well, the pain and sickness of the past days washing away in the bright sunshine of his happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Joseph Nourse to Alexander Hamilton, 7 September 1793  
> 2 Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, 8 September 1793  
> 3 Alexander Hamilton to Catharine Greene, 3 September 1793  
> 4 Alexander Hamilton to the College of Physicians, 11 September 1793
> 
> Ugh, just tell her Ham!! 
> 
> The Yellow Fever epidemic of 1793 was a genuinely horrifying historical event. That Eliza stayed with Hamilton when he got sick has always struck me as such a pure act of love and bravery, but it had to have weighed on his conscious that she did it without knowing about the affair. I've also been thinking about Jefferson's (despicable) comments to Madison, and how heartbreaking it is that Hamilton was so petrified of getting sick. With all the stress he was under due to the ongoing Congressional investigation, plus his already weakened immune system, he clearly had good reason to be worried.


	19. Hamilton, December 1793-January 1794

**December 1793- January 1794**

Boisterous laughter rang out from the front room as Hamilton came around the landing, brushing at his lace cuffs to remove the lingering lint from his coat. He paused to soak in the blessed sound of his children. The house had been far too quiet without them for the past month.

It couldn’t be helped, of course. The fever had still been rampant when he and Eliza began the journey back to Pennsylvania, and neither of them were yet well enough to be chasing after their more energetic little ones. Leaving them behind with their grandparents had only made sense. But, oh, how he’d missed them.1

A gust of cold air was blowing through the otherwise warm house when Hamilton turned into the foyer. He could hear a fiddle playing a lively gig just outside, and the children were gathered around the open door, each grinning from ear to ear.

Jamie’s mouth was agape. “Oh, Gosh! Look at that one!”

Placing a hand on Pip’s shoulder, Hamilton leaned against the door to see what the fuss was about. Pip glanced back briefly, shooting him a grin. In the bright daylight, he noticed for the first time some peach fuzz decorating his son’s upper lip. About to turn twelve and already sporting the gangly limbs and spotty face of a teenager, it seemed his boy was approaching puberty at a gallop.

A troop of men were gathered on Market street just outside their house: one of them played the fiddle, while the three others, dressed in colorful clothes with brightly painted faces, somersaulted and cartwheeled through the snow, the bells on their comical hats jingling as they tumbled about. A few passers-by had paused in the street to watch to show, though the performance was clearly aimed at his children. The city was still so mournful and dreary from the plague they had suffered, he was pleasantly surprised to see the men out today.

Clacking heels on the hard floor behind him drew his gaze, and he saw Eliza carrying a heaping plate of sugar-dusted spice cakes. She was dressed in a fine maroon gown, which she’d donned over one of her warmest quilted petticoats, though her face was beat red from the hot kitchen and her curls kept falling into her face. One of their new maids walked a step behind her, nodding constantly as Eliza rattled off instructions.

“And make sure to press the new table cloth. Oh, and we’ll need all fresh candlesticks for the table. Nothing ruins the look of a formal dinner like half-burned candlesticks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl agreed breathlessly.

Eliza stopped just shy of the foyer, her face scrunched as though trying to summon a memory. “I think that’s all. We should be home not long after midnight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl repeated.

Heaving a sigh, Eliza finally looked at him and paid him a weary smile.

“Mummers,” he noted, gesturing towards the door.

“Oh, right,” she said, shaking her head and coming forward with the platter. As she placed the cakes on the front table, she explained, “Mary’s bringing up a small bowl of punch for them as well. I wasn’t expecting them this year.”

“I wasn’t, either. Come watch with us.”

“They’re funny, Mama,” Jamie said, still beaming with delight.

Angelica handed Johnny over to Eliza as she joined them. He placed his arm around his wife’s waist and pressed a kiss to her apple-red cheek. “Relax, sweetheart.”

 “There’s just so much to do before tomorrow. And with the President possibly attending—”

“It will all keep,” he assured her. “Relax.”

 She released a long breath, jiggling Johnny on her hip as she leaned against him. Two of the clowns were in the midst of mock fisticuffs, and one spun about with his fist out while the other flailed back comically before landing soundly on his rump in the snow. Eliza laughed merrily right along with the children. When the men rose to take a bow, they all gave a round of applause before Eliza invited, “Please, come inside, get warm, and enjoy some cakes and punch.”

“Thank you, ma’am, sir,” the men muttered as they trooped past towards the tray of treats. Mary hurried in with the punch bowl and glasses as the men began to eat, and the children were herded back towards the parlor now that the entertainment had ended.

“Will there be clowns at the President’s party?” Jamie asked, plopping himself down behind a line of little toy soldiers.

“Maybe,” Hamilton replied with some distraction. He held his arms out to Eliza, silently offering to take the baby, which she gratefully accepted. Johnny transferred into his arms eagerly, and snuggled his little head against his father’s shoulder. With a quick ruffle to Johnny’s hair, she hurried from the room to finish getting ready. Glancing back at Jamie, Hamilton added, “They travel from house to house.”

“I want to come.” Jamie’s voice adopted the worrying whiny tone that often denoted an impending tantrum. “Alex gets to go.”

“I’m older than you,” Alex replied with a haughtiness sure to make the situation worse.

“I’m six,” Jamie insisted. “That’s only one year less than you.”

“You’re five,” Hamilton corrected fondly.

“I’m almost six,” Jamie pouted.

“Well, I’m almost eight,” Alex parried. Jamie stuck his tongue out at his brother, and Alex returned the gesture in kind.

“All right boys,” he cut in before they could start wrestling each other. Addressing Jamie once more, he said, “Mama and I told Mary you could stay up an extra hour tonight, and have a special treat if you eat all your vegetables at supper.” 

Jamie gave him an appraising squint. “What sort of treat?”

“A good one,” he promised.

“I still want to go,” Jamie sighed, but with more resignation, his attention returning reluctantly to his toy soldiers.

Alex sat on the floor next to Pip, who’d opened a book when they’d returned to the parlor. He elbowed Pip in the arm playfully, and Pip nudged him back, making a silly face while he was at it. The two seemed closer now that Alex had started his first term at Mr. Frazer’s boarding school in Trenton. He was glad to see Pip had taken his little brother under his wing.

 Angelica was at her piano, as usual, and Fanny had seated herself very daintily upon the sofa, smoothing her hands over her expensive white dress with utmost care. They’d both become such darling little ladies over the past year. Before long, the days of dolls, stuffed rabbits, and pretend tea parties would be well behind them in favor of ribbons, gowns, and balls. And suitors, he considered with a slight shiver.

They were all growing up so fast. He felt like their childhoods were slipping through his fingers, speeding by while he sat locked away in an office at the Treasury. Cuddling Johnny against him, he took comfort in the sweet scent of his wispy hair. If all went to plan, he wouldn’t miss much more of his little ones tender years, he consoled himself.

 **

The President’s mansion was a riot of activity when the carriage pulled to a stop just outside the door. A servant pulled open the door and Hamilton dismounted, stopping a step away to hold out a hand for Eliza. Pip, Angelica, Fanny, and Alex followed, the girls charmingly careful not to let their new dresses drag in the snow.

President and Mrs. Washington stood just inside to greet their arriving guests. A noisy group blocked the path, however, similarly dressed to the troop that had performed at their house, but comprised of more men, all significantly more intoxicated. Mrs. Washington was doing her best to keep a proper hostess smile plastered on her face as one of the gentlemen leaned far too close to her. The President looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Once the mummers were shepherded towards a waiting table of food and drink, he and Eliza stepped forward. He noted with something approaching fondness that his old General’s shoulders eased perceptibly at the sight of them. “Sir,” he greeted, accepting the President’s offered hand to shake. “A happy new year to you and your family.”

Washington clasped his shoulder and gave him a significant look. “To you and yours as well, my dear boy. May it be a better, more peaceful year.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve both come,” Mrs. Washington added, kissing Eliza on both cheeks before appraising her with a motherly eye. “You’re looking much healthier than last I saw you both, though you could both still use a good deal of fattening up.”

He and Eliza both laughed. His eye went to the side of the room, and he remarked, “I’m sure you’ll see to that, Mrs. Washington, if the spread of food on the front table is anything to judge by.”

Washington gave an annoyed sounding grunt at having his attention pulled back to the brightly dressed clowns now gorging themselves on mince pie and cups of mulled wine. “What sort of tradition is it that compels a man to entertain drunkards with more drink?”

“Why, aren’t you in a cheery mood today, sir,” Hamilton teased lightly.

Washington’s lips twitched slightly with a glimmer of amusement.

Mrs. Washington laid a steadying hand on her husband’s elbow and agreed, “It’s just a bit of harmless fun, dear. The children so enjoy it.”

“Ours were quite pleased to see them. Everything’s been so gloomy and gray this holiday season, I admit I was rather thrilled myself,” Eliza remarked. “Don’t you agree, dearest?”

“Quite so,” he replied, sending her a small wink.

“You know, I quite agree with you,” Mrs. Washington said to Eliza. “We’ve had such tragedy in our city this year, but surely the best remedy isn’t to retreat into gloom. Perhaps we could arrange something to raise some spirits?”

“An ice skating party, perhaps, and the ladies could donate baked goods and hot drinks to sell, for the benefit of the societies for the poor,” Eliza suggested brightly. At his side glance, she added, “I do so love seeing my darling husband in skates.”

“What she likes is watching me make a fool of myself.”

Mrs. Washington’s tinkling laugh was paired with another lip twitch from the President. The grand older lady squeezed Eliza’s arm affectionately and said, “What a perfect idea. We’ll have to discuss it more later—perhaps when we come for our visit tomorrow. I shall look forward to seeing you in ice skates, Mr. Hamilton,” Mrs. Washington teased.  

“Anything for a good cause, ma’am,” he agreed, letting Washington clasp his shoulder once more before they moved into the splendidly lit reception hall.

Eliza slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow as they moved out of the way to the side of the room, the children sprinting off through the crowds, no doubt in search of Nelly and Washy. Eliza wrinkled her nose subtly as she looked up at him. “I suppose we’ll have to mingle.”

“What are you complaining about? You’re effortless at these things.”

“Me? You’ll have a circle of gentleman around you in minutes, while I try to find a place to stand that won’t get my feet trodden on.”

He scoffed. “Please. When you aren’t dancing, you and your ladies will be plotting and planning. I shan’t be surprised if you have an entire ice skating benefit planned down to the last pie crumb by the time the night is through.”

She gave up the pretense of being a wallflower with a sigh, though she insisted, “I’d still have rather had a quiet night home with you.”

His expression turned serious as he searched her face for signs of discomfort or illness. She’d developed a miserable cold just before Christmas, but she’d insisted she was better now. Of course, these days, better was a relative term for both of them, with the fever having taken such a toll. “Are you fatigued, my angel? Or unwell? We needn’t stay if you feel like you need rest and quiet.”

“It’s not that.” Pausing, as if to select her words carefully, she said, “I missed the children awfully, of course, and it’s nice to be dressed up and out in society, but I do miss those quiet evenings, just the two of us, cuddled up snug under a warm blanket by the fire with a book.”

Hearing her describe it made him ache for the companionable warmth of those evenings as well. With a wishful sigh, he pushed the beautiful image away, and instructed, “We’ll just have to make do with dancing, feasting, and a fireworks display.” 

“Not such a terrible consolation when you say it like that, I suppose.” She gave him a winsome little smirk, leaned in to peck his lips, and pulled away. “Find me for a dance later? I want at least one with you.”

“I will,” he promised.

 The evening was a whirlwind of dancing, wine, and laughter. Within a few hours, he was left parched, overheated, and missing his wife. Beyond a brief glimpse of Eliza’s maroon dress an hour before, she’d disappeared completely into the crowd. When a break came in the conversation he’d embroiled himself in, he excused himself and headed towards the entrance, hoping the chilly night air would cool him down.

As he pushed into the entrance hall, he found another guest standing in the doorway leading outside. Bracing himself, he ventured tentatively, “A happy new year to you, Mr. Madison.”

Jemmy looked around, and Hamilton saw his mouth tighten oddly before he replied. “And to you, Mr. Hamilton.”

“You’re not leaving us already, I hope? It’s another hour until midnight.”

“I am,” Jemmy said shortly.

Hamilton nodded, not sure how to respond.

Jemmy gave him a long, considering look before adding, “I promised to meet a friend.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.” He had little doubt as to whom Jemmy was off to visit.

At last, Jemmy turned round fully to face him. “You must be very pleased now that Thomas has officially resigned.”

“Pleased?” he echoed. “I would hardly say that.”

“No one to challenge you for the President’s ear, or to dispute the wisdom of neutrality over honoring our alliance with France? I’m sure none of that occurred to you at all when you heard the news.”

Hamilton shrugged slightly. “Mr. Jefferson was perfectly entitled to state his opinions in our meetings. I was never pleased to go against him, and I assure you I don’t consider his resignation a victory. In fact, I’ll be gone, too, soon enough.”

Jemmy blinked once, nonplussed at the news. “You’re resigning?”

“You know, back when we were writing the Federalist, we used to discuss government service in such grand terms: shaping a nation, improving the lives of the public, ensuring liberty for posterity. Taking charge of the Treasury department has been the worthiest and most important thing I've ever done, backbreaking and thankless though it may feel from time to time. I'm honored to have been the first to hold the position. But,” he paused, swallowing, and forced a tight smile, “It’s just not worth my life, Jemmy. And the longer I stay here, the more I realize that will be the price it extracts from me.”   

The old nickname seemed to soften the smaller man, and he tilted his head slightly, as though examining Hamilton for the first time in a long while. “I don’t believe I had the chance to say how sorry I was to hear that you and Mrs. Hamilton fell ill with the fever, and how very relieved I am that you’re both feeling better.”

“Thank you.”

Jemmy gave him a slight hint of a smile. He beamed back, allowing himself to enjoy the fleeting glimpse of their old friendship. A brief silence followed.

“When do you intend on leaving your post, if I may ask?” The question was posed with a forced casualness that couldn’t help but remind Hamilton that Jemmy was no longer a trusted companion. When the smile leeched from his face, he at least sensed regret on Jemmy’s part.

“That’s really more up to you than me.” Hamilton gave a soft chuckle at the quizzical furrow in Jemmy’s brow. “Speaker Muhlenberg has yet to pass on the news to the rest of the House, I suppose. I’ve asked him to re-open the investigation into my department that was cut short last term. I want my name cleared before I leave office, and I welcome a thorough review.”

Jemmy’s eyes widened in shock, and his jaw began moving, as if he were chewing on words he desperately wanted to say. After another long pause, he asked, “Do you think that… wise?”

“Probably not,” Hamilton replied. “But I want it over with. I’m ready to go home with my wife and my children. I wouldn’t trade time with them for anything in the world; I can’t justify spending any more of it away from them for the sake of this job. I’ve given too much already.”

“I would advise you to tread carefully, Mr. Hamilton. Your opponents in Congress will not be easy, nor kind, even if you have invited the review. They want to see you ruined, and I doubt much short of it will bring this to a conclusion.”

Hamilton appreciated that for this moment, at least, Jemmy had not included himself in the group clamoring for Hamilton’s downfall. “I understand. But there’s nothing for them to find, and they’ll have to stop looking eventually.”

Jemmy looked highly skeptical, but he nodded as he glanced behind him to where his servants were bringing his carriage around. “I ought to be going. I want to arrive at my destination before snow begins in earnest.”

“I wouldn’t worry. The storm seems to have passed over us.”

“I’ve found that the eye of a storm can look much like the end to those caught in the middle of it.” Hamilton frowned at the strange statement, especially as applied to what would be a minor snow storm, if anything. Jemmy held his gaze for a long, pregnant moment.  “I wish you good luck in the new year, Mr. Hamilton.”

**

“Here you are. I’ve been looking everywhere.” Hamilton craned his head around from his seat on the front steps to see Eliza approaching, pulling her shawl tighter around herself to stave off the bitter chill in the night air. “You must be freezing.”

The air was cold and smelled of snow, a combination that kept most of the guests at the President’s home inside, jockey for positions at windows and on the family’s private terrace. Some brave souls were about, he noticed, standing on the street in huddled clumps to await the imminent firework display. The crack of distant gunfire told him mummers were still about, as well, their celebrations turning more lively and dangerous as the night wore on.  

“I’m all right,” he answered belatedly.

“You never found me for our dance.”

He winced. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

Jemmy’s warning had been echoing in his mind since he left. Congress wanted to see him ruined, Jemmy had said. His conscience was clear when it came to his public reputation and his work for the Treasury, but Muhlenberg did know something, a secret that would assuredly ruin his private happiness if not his public life. Surely they wouldn’t go so far as to reveal such a private, personal failing just to see him brought low, he’d been trying to convince himself. The Jeffersonians couldn’t hate him that much, could they?

Even the possibility was making him suddenly feel ill.

“What’s happened?” She lowered herself onto the step beside him and pressed close against him for warmth. He wrapped his arm around her waist to bring her closer.  

“Nothing. I just wanted some air.” The pause that followed was heavy with her skepticism. With a sheepish smile, he amended, “I ran into Jemmy as he was leaving.”

Her hand landed on his knee in a consoling pat. “I suppose he did more than wish you a happy new year?”

He breathed out a slight chuckle. “Yes. Though it was one of the more civil encounters we’ve had in recent years. We exchanged some words over Mr. Jefferson’s resignation from State, but he also expressed his relief that we’re both recovering and his concerns about a recent…decision I made.”

Her question hung in the air between them again.

Swallowing deliberately, he continued, “I requested the Speaker of the House re-open the investigation into my department.”

He felt her shift beside him, lifting her head from his shoulder and sitting up straight. When he looked over, her eyes were wide and her mouth was slightly parted in shock. “Why would you do that?”

“I want to go home, back to New York with you and the children.”

“You can’t....” She seemed to still be wrapping her mind around the news, closing her eyes as it sank in. “You can’t go through that again. Especially not now.”

“I’ll be all right.”

He tried to take her hand to reassure her, but she pulled hers away and forced him to meet her eye. “No, you won’t. Don’t you remember what it was like last time? I watched you grow weaker by the day from overwork; I held you in my arms when you collapsed. I thought you were dying that night at the Binghams, Alexander. And now, when you’re still not completely recovered from the fever—”

“It’s just a little fogginess—”2

“Alexander, listen to me, please. This is going to kill you.”

“It won’t.”

Her eyes were growing bright and watery, and her voice took on a croaky quality that he knew had nothing to do with her recent cold. “Why…why would open yourself to another senseless round of attacks like this?”

“I want to go home,” he repeated imploringly as he took her hand in his again. “I can’t resign until my name has been cleared, and this is the only way. I requested a full, thorough examination of my conduct in the Treasury, but I stipulated that it can’t be like the session. I know I can’t run the Treasury and answer endless, unreasonable, and duplicative inquiries, especially with my health as it is.”3

“That’s not going to work.”

He knew she was right.

“There’s no other way.” Reading the doubt on her face, he insisted, “I would leave this very second if I could, Betsey, I swear to you. But if my name remains connected to financial misconduct of any kind, I won’t be able to draw enough clients to my practice to support us. Once Congress clears me, and they will clear me, we’ll go home.”

He brought her hand to his lips to punctuate the sentence. A tear threatened to slip free from her damp eyes, but she brushed it away with her free hand. After a shaky breath, she asked, “You promise?”

“I promise.”

She leaned in to him, her shawl loosening as she wrapped her arms around his torso in a tight hug. Her breath felt hot against his ear as she whispered, “I can’t lose you. I just can’t.”

“Well, I must start working on my immortality then,” he teased.

“If you don’t, I will.”

The determination in her voice made him smile, though when they separated he noted her expression was gravely serious. “This time next year we’ll be together in Manhattan, and all this unpleasantness will seem like little more than a distant memory.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The soft murmur of voices raised together in song poured out from the doorway now along with the warm golden light, signaling the approach of midnight. Eliza sniffled lightly as she looked back towards the President’s residence. “We should go in. Mrs. Washington invited us to watch the fireworks from the terrace with her, the President, and a select few others.”

“Or we could watch them from here,” he suggested. “I do enjoy having you all to myself, even without the good book and the warm fire.”

That, at least, prompted the beginning of a smile.

When he saw her give a slight shiver, he quickly stripped off his coat to drape around her shoulders. “Here, if we’re staying outside, you’ll need to be warm.”

“But won’t you be cold?” She pulled his coat closer around herself even as she asked, clearly grateful for the extra warmth.  

“It’s only for a few more minutes.” He held his arms open. “Besides, I have you to keep me warm.”

At last, a real smile blossomed across her face as she settled back in his arms.

They gazed up at the sky together in anticipation of the display about to begin. The scent of snow still hung heavy in the air, but he noticed a patch of clear sky ahead, the stars shining through brightly. He gestured towards it as he noted, “Look, the clouds are finally clearing up ahead. You can see the stars.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said wistfully, relaxing further back into him.

A whistle proceeded the first explosion of color overhead. Eliza’s hand squeezed his when his arms tightened around her. He looked at her rather than up overhead, captivated by the play of white and blue light across her face. His love for her seemed to grow by the day, almost impossibly, until sometimes he felt he might burst with it. The threats of the future seemed to shrink in her presence.

Never had a new year felt so much like a promise of a new beginning, he considered: Jefferson had surrendered for the moment, the President was committed to neutrality, the economy was doing undeniably well, and, best of all, he’d soon be free from the quagmire of politics. Here, with Eliza in his arms, for the first time in a long time, he felt blissfully at peace.

Sensing his gaze, she adjusted against him and whispered, “Happy new year, my love.”

“Happy new year.”

She stretched up to kiss him just as a burst of red light exploded above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Philip Schuyler to Alexander Hamilton, 15 December 1793  
> 2 Alexander Hamilton to Angelica Church, 27 December 1793  
> 3 Alexander Hamilton to Frederick A.C. Muhlenberg, 16 December 1793
> 
> My attempt at understanding Hamilton's breathtakingly stupid idea to invite Congress to investigate him further, after they'd nearly killed him with overwork the year before. I can't imagine Eliza was a great supporter of his plan, and I liked the idea of even Jemmy trying to talk him out of it. 
> 
> I think by the beginning of 1794, he felt like things were finally looking up for him. Jefferson's last day as Secretary of State was December 31st, America was firmly neutral in the chaos between France and England, and secret seemed to be effectually buried. Once he had his name cleared, he could safely retire from public life. Of course, nothing about 1794 would be that simple...
> 
> A quick note on the mummers: today, Philadelphia has a Mummers parade on New Years every year. The official parade didn't begin until the 20th century, but the tradition of working class men in the city dressing up and going from house to house singing, dancing, and performing skits in exchange for food and drink stretches back to the 17th century. Heavy intoxication and frequent celebratory gun shooting made the tradition more concerning than quaint, however, and it was briefly banned in the 19th century before it was brought back in a more tame fashion and overseen by the city.


	20. Eliza, July 1794

**July 1794**

An overwhelming scent of herbs and spices assaulted Eliza as she pushed open the door to apothecary shop, a little bell tinkling overhead to alert the proprietor to her presence. The cramped shop was crowded with customers. A few browsed the shelves of curiously colored jars and vials, but most were standing in line behind an elderly, stooped gentleman who appeared to be arguing over the price of a powder packet. Lifting a handkerchief to her nose to dull the cacophony of smells, Eliza stepped inside.

She felt inside her apron for the list Alexander had hastily jotted down for her to purchase for poor little Johnny, who was running a low grade fever and suffering from a wheezy sort of cough. The ailment left her once easy baby whiny and clingy. Nothing she did seemed to ease him, but he refused to let her set him down. In addition to the medicines Alexander wished to try for their little one, he’d also requested she buy more of the headache powder he favored. She’d been using it as well, lately, due largely to lack of sleep, and between the two of them, they’d been going through it at an alarming rate.

As she hunted through display for the willow tree bark foremost on her list, she noticed a small hand reach up from around the side of the table to push at one of the glass jars, sending it into another with a resounding clink. Peeking around the table, she saw a little boy, no more than three, looking back at her curiously. “Well, hello,” she greeted.

The boy gave her a shy smile, then wiped his sleeve against his nose.

She glanced around the immediate area, but couldn’t see any adult that seemed to belong to the child. Crouching down to his level, she inquired, “What’s your name?”

“Payne.”

“Is your mama or papa here, Payne?”

After a moment’s consideration, he answered, “Mama.”

“Do you know where she is?”

He shook his head.

“Why don’t we go look for her, shall we?” She held out her hand, and the little boy placed his sweaty little palm in hers eagerly. Together, they started towards the winding aisles in the back of the shop.

The search wasn’t particularly difficult. Turning the corner, Eliza spotted a young, dark haired woman peering into a cramped opening in a display case. “Payne? Sweetheart? Are you in there?”

“Ma’am,” Eliza called to her. “I think I may have found what you’re looking for.”

The young woman spun around and released a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said, hurrying over to scoop the little boy up in her arms. As she held the boy to her, she smiled gratefully at Eliza. “Thank you so much. I only turned my back for a second; he must have wandered off.”

“I understand completely. My children did just the same thing at this age,” Eliza assured her. Pip and Jamie had been the worst offenders, disappearing into the oddest places any time she dare let her gaze leave them in public. She’d once found Jamie curled up in a storage barrel munching on an apple when she’d taken him with her to the grocers.

“Dolley Todd,” the young woman introduced herself.

Eliza recognized the name immediately. Though they’d not met, Mrs. Washington had told her about the striking young widow who appeared to have caught Jemmy Madison’s eye. “Elizabeth Hamilton. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Todd. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Washington.”

Eliza could see recognition flash in Dolley’s eyes as well.

“Of course, Mrs. Hamilton. A great pleasure to meet you at last.” A weak, embarrassed sort of smile crossed Dolley’s lips. “I know your name from your husband’s eminent position and your reputation for charity, but I suppose you know mine only through Lady Washington’s gossip mill.”

She’d heard Dolley Todd’s once before the young lady’s connection with Mrs. Washington and Jemmy Madison, in fact, in the midst of a conversation about the terrifying death toll of the yellow fever epidemic the previous fall. The poor young woman had lost both her husband and her younger son on the same day, if she recalled correctly. The memory immediately invoked that terrible creaking of the wagon bearing away the dead, surrounded by the disgusting buzzing of flies drawn to the stench of decay. A shiver ran through her, horror and gratitude invoked all at once in a confusing rush of emotion.

That was hardly a proper subject to broach in this setting, however.

Instead, she gave Dolley a friendly smile. “Yes, Lady Washington can be quite the match-maker. Having been on the receiving end of her attentions myself, I sympathize with you.”

Dolley laughed brightly. “Was it a match with Mr. Hamilton she advocated?”

“Oh, yes. She suggested I seek him out the first day I arrived at the army camp to stay with my aunt, and afterwards did all she could to arrange for us to be alone together, ordering him to walk me home from headquarters and the like.” Eliza felt a rush of nostalgia at the memories of Morristown and those simple, early days with her husband. It all seemed a lifetime ago. “It all worked out for the best, I must say.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Dolley said with a little sigh. At Eliza’s look of concern, she added, “Mr. Madison is very kind. I like him very much, and I’m very grateful for Lady Washington’s support, but…it’s all just so soon…after John.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Todd,” Eliza offered.

Dolley gave a heavy swallow, the shadow of grief eclipsing her sunny smile from moments before. Had Eliza known her better, she would have wrapped her in a hug and brought her straight home for tea. As it was, she simply reached out to lay a consoling hand on the young woman’s shoulder. Dolley leaned into the comforting touch.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.” Young Payne squirmed in his mother’s tight hold and let out a pitiful sounding cough that drew their attention. “I ought to be getting this one home. He seems to have picked up a summer cold. Hopefully the medicine and some good Virginia air will set him to rights.”

“Are you returning to Virginia?” Eliza asked, surprised.

“Just for a few months. I couldn’t bear to stay again, after last summer….” Dolley trailed off.

“Of course.”

“I do hope we get a chance to visit properly when I return in the fall.” Dolley gave her a considering look. “I know Mr. Madison and Mr. Hamilton don’t get along very well.”

Eliza had to choke down a derisive snort at the understatement. Madison had been right in the thick of the new round of Congressional investigations. With Alexander’s health still shaky as it was, he’d been pushed near to the limits of his endurance by the constant pressure. And she’d been pushed right along with him.

She waited up for him each night when he worked late, either at the Treasury or his desk downstairs, attempting to handle the most critical tasks of his office, because his daylight hours were wasted before a Congressional committee giving endless testimony. They asked about every transaction, every document, every penny Alexander had earned. He’d even needed to produce records regarding their personal finances. As she’d been the one handling their finances for much of the five years he’d be Treasury Secretary, she’d felt it only fair to assist him with that particular task.

They’d stayed up most of the night for nearly a week, deciphering smudged lines and numbers, trying to reconstruct the circumstances behind each sum deposited. The week of sleepless nights had brought on her first attack of headaches, still lingering even now. And that had only been one of the ridiculous tasks the Congress had set her poor husband. He’d grown thin and exhausted trying to jump through hoops designed to make him fall on his face.

The real tragedy was, even through all that, she knew Alexander still idolized Jemmy.

“It’s really such a shame,” Eliza said to Dolley at last, forcing a smile. “Alexander was devoted to Mr. Madison when they served together in Congress, and later in the Constitutional Convention. Mr. Madison’s coolness and suspicion towards him pains him greatly. But that’s politics, I suppose.”

“Well, we shan’t let the squabbles of men interfere with us,” Dolley said decisively. “Perhaps, together, we can even force Mr. Madison and Mr. Hamilton to see reason.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, although Alexander wasn’t the one acting unreasonably, in her opinion. (At least, not in this instance.) “You must come for tea as soon as you arrive back in Philadelphia, Mrs. Todd.”

“I look forward to it, Mrs. Hamilton.” Her expression was sincere, Eliza noted.  

As they parted ways, Eliza allowed herself a moment of hope that Dolley Todd might be the remedy to the poisonous political atmosphere that had hardened Jemmy’s heart against her husband.  

**

The trip to the apothecary was only one of a list of errands she needed to run that afternoon. After a trip to the grocer’s, the milliner’s, the tailor’s, and a visit with Madame Noel to drop off some food and a few extra dollars for the poor widow’s children, Eliza was badly in need of a dose of the headache powder she’d procured. She ached with exhaustion, having stayed up nearly all night with Jonny, and she longed for a quiet afternoon nap in her darkened bedroom. The moment she set foot through her front door, however, she could hear little Johnny fussing.

Mary paced through the parlor, singing softly and rubbing at Johnny’s back.  

Eliza paused in the entryway to the room, her arms still laden with baskets, overstuffed with the fruits of her errands. “How is he?”

“He still feels warm, ma’am. I gave him the cool bath, as Mr. Hamilton instructed, and that seemed to help for a bit. But he woke from his nap in a right foul mood, and he’s been fussing ever since.”

“Would you mind putting these away for me?” Eliza asked, setting down the baskets. “I’ll see to him.”

Johnny was transferred into her arms with a whine of protest, though he settled upon seeing her face. “My poor little darling,” she cooed. His arms wound around her as he settled against her shoulder. She pressed a kiss to his damp hair and sat in the rocking chair, singing a soft lullaby in hopes of sending him back to sleep.

Unfortunately, the rocking was more effective on her than on her son. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her own voice sounded distant and amplified all at once. The moment she stopped rocking, however, Johnny whined, “Mama.”

Startling awake, she soothed a hand over the boy’s back. “Hush, darling. Time to sleep.”

He fidgeted in her arms and gave an exhausted half sob. She held his sweaty body closer, her heart breaking for him. “I know, dearest. I know you don’t feel well. Mama’s right here.”

She started to sing again, switching to the French lullaby Alexander favored. Johnny coughed weakly, but his tears stopped, and slowly, he began to drift off. She hardly dared breathe for fear of waking him. After another quarter hour of rocking, she at last chanced movement, rising from the chair to bring him upstairs to his crib.  

Excited chatter interrupted the half formed thought she’d had of resting in her own bed. Bypassing her bedroom, she headed downstairs, where she found Angelica, Fanny, and Nelly giggling and fawning over a basket of ribbons. “How was your dancing lesson?”

“Fine,” Angelica answered, distracted by the yellow silk ribbon she held in her hands. “But look what Mrs. Washington bought! She said I could have a few. I can, can’t I Mama?”

Eliza frowned at the expensive-looking material, but a voice from the entryway behind her cut off any objection she might have made. “Oh, of course you can, dear. You and Fanny both. You’ll want to look your finest for all the balls you’ll be attending come fall.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Washington,” Eliza greeted, turning to address the plump older lady. “Thank you for taking the girls to their lesson. You really didn’t need to buy them any treats.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Washington assured her.

“Would you care to stay for tea?”

“That sounds lovely, my dear.”

With a tight smile, Eliza set off in search of Mary to have her bring up a tray. When she returned to the parlor, the girls had disappeared, and Mrs. Washington beckoned her over to the sofa. “Come, come. I sent the girls outside to play, that we might have our tea in peace.” Giving her an appraising look, she added, “Are you feeling well, my dear? You’re looking a touch peaky this afternoon.”

Eliza settled beside Mrs. Washington obediently. “I’m fine. A little tired, is all. Johnny’s been under the weather, and Alexander’s been keeping very odd hours the past few months.”

Mrs. Washington sighed. “Yes. He doesn’t look much better than you, according to my dear husband. He worries so over that boy. It’s such a shame they’ve been so distant these past months. But they do have their tempers, our boys, don’t they?”

In the casual statement, Eliza heard a hinting for information, or perhaps an opening to start to mend the difference between Alexander and the President. She fought a smile at how similar Mrs. Washington’s word choice was to her own earlier conversation with Mrs. Todd. How often her headstrong husband forced her to have these conversations.

“I don’t think Alexander is angry with the President,” she offered. “I think he’s just…hurt.”

Mrs. Washington’s brow wrinkled. “Hurt?”

“That the President didn’t do more to help him, when he was being attacked over the foreign loans in Congress.”

Alexander had been beyond hurt. One avenue Congress had explored involved misuse of foreign loans, or so Alexander had explained to her. The money he’d used to make a payment on a domestic debt had come from one such loan—something Congress had not explicitly authorized, but, according to her husband, the President had. Rather than confirm these orders, however, Washington had written a cool, distant, profoundly unhelpful letter. Alexander had felt it keenly as a knife to the back from a man he’d once trusted completely. Exhaustion and long buried grief had come pouring out of him in waves of sobs while she held him close. Something had broken between the two men that day.1

“The President didn’t wish to be seen as partisan,” Mrs. Washington explained. She wasn’t cool, exactly, but Eliza sensed defensiveness in her tone. “He did all he felt he could.”

“I understand,” Eliza assured her. “And so does Alexander. But he’s still….”

“Hurt,” Mrs. Washington supplied, her expression softening.

Mary brought in the tea tray in the moment of silence that followed. Eliza busied herself preparing cups for them both, but found when she brought the cup to her lips that she couldn’t stomach the hot drink. She placed the cup back on its saucer lightly without having sipped it.

“You’re sure you’re all right, dear?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, forcing another smile.

Mrs. Washington’s gaze fell from Eliza’s face down towards her midriff, and a mischievous smile tugged at the older woman’s lips. “You and Mr. Hamilton wouldn’t be expecting another bundle of joy, perchance?”

Eliza opened her mouth to deny the words, then paused. She was late, she realized. Very late. And with Johnny weaned now, the chances of another pregnancy were high. Her headaches, the sudden turning of her stomach, her sensitive nose, it all started to slot into place. “I…I’m not sure.”

Oh, but she was, suddenly.  

Mrs. Washington’s whole face lit up. “I shan’t tell a soul, my dear, I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice indistinct.

“But how wonderful! And even better to have you close by for the foreseeable future. Whatever difficulties they’ve been having, my dear husband was much relieved that Mr. Hamilton determined to put off all that nonsense about resigning from his post. Especially now, with things in the west being as they are.”2

White began to press in on the corners of Eliza’s vision. “Alexander…he delayed his resignation?”

“Well, yes. Did he not tell you?”

“I…” Her mouth opened, then closed. The world felt like it had tilted on its axis. How could do that to her? How could he not even mention it? “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m…suddenly feeling a bit faint.”

“Oh my goodness. Here, let me help you upstairs. You should lie down. You need lots of rest in your condition, you know.”    

**

Soft golden light flickered from the single candle in the corner of the nursery as Eliza slowly rocked back and forth, Johnny a heavy, sweaty weight in her arms. His fever felt higher than before, his cheeks turning flushed and his eyes glassy as he lied limply against her shoulder. He’d had his bath already, and the medicine Alexander suggested. She sang softly to him, powerless to provide any other comfort.

“How is he?”

She looked up and saw Alexander standing just at the edge of the candlelight, his shadowed face thin and haggard. His exhaustion, which had inspired sympathy from her only this morning, now redoubled the anger in the pit of her chest. How could he, she wanted to demand, how could stay in his position when they were all so weak and worn?

“Feverish,” she answered succinctly.

He made a cooing sound as he stepped fully into the room, his fingers reaching out to brush Johnny’s mussed hair. Johnny adjusted to look up at him and gave a pitiful moan. “Papa.”

“Come here, my little lamb.” Alexander lifted Johnny from her arms. “Did you give him the medicine?”

She nodded.

“And the bath?”

“Yes. He seems worse tonight.” As if to confirm her observation, a harsh, barking cough forced its way from her baby’s chest. Alexander patted at his back to calm him.

“I don’t know what else to try.” Alexander kissed the baby’s head once he stopped coughing. “I hate when our babies are ill. I feel so useless.”

“I know.”

Alexander looked at her, his head tilting slightly. “Are you all right? You look tired.”

She wanted to laugh, to slap him, to cry, all at once. “I am tired, Alexander.”

“Do you want to go lie down for a bit? I can see to him for a few hours. I’ll be up working anyways.”

“What are you working on?”

His expression grew more perplexed at the iciness in her tone. “Just a report for the President. We’ve been having some problems with tax collectors in Western Pennsylvania. I told you, remember, the men all riled up over the whiskey tax?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Is something the matter, Betsey?”

“You aren’t going to resign, are you?”

“What?”

“Mrs. Washington told me.”

He heaved a sigh. “Betsey—”

“I should have known. You have that gleam in your eyes again.” She’d loved that gleam, that fiery passion, once upon a time. “All that stress and exhaustion, all the pain you’ve endured, and you’re not going to leave.”

“That’s not true. I am going to leave. This just isn’t the proper moment. Once this business out west is settled—”

“That’s what you said about the Congressional investigation.” Her voice had ticked up in volume slightly, and Johnny made a noise in Alexander’s arms. She lowered her next words to a whisper. “When will the proper moment be? Your family needs you. I need you. I can’t do this anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m pregnant.” Tears prick at her eyes as the words spill out of her.

A myriad of emotions played across his face: confusion, concern, anxiety, joy. His features settle on elation. “That’s wonderful.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, it’s not. I’m not strong enough right now. I’m not ready.”

Her body felt weak, depleted. The ravages of yellow fever, the late hours supporting Alexander, the sleepless nights caring for Johnny, it all felt too much. She was terrified.

“Of course you’re strong enough. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re perfect.”

She hates when he says that to her. It feels like a dismissal. “No, I’m not.”

He frowned.

“You’re never here. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning, and you don’t even notice. You don’t even see me.”

“I see you, Eliza.”

“No you don’t.”

Brushing past him, she escaped into their bedroom and shut the door. Even through the wood, she heard his confused call. “Eliza?”

She ignored him.

**

She was still awake when the bedroom door eased open again, candlelight spilling across the floor as Alexander made his way over to her. The bone-aching exhaustion seemed to have pushed into a territory beyond sleep. She blinked in the light as her husband sat gingerly beside her on the bed.

“I do see you, you know.”

She grunted at him, refusing to soften at the hint of placation in his voice.

“I know how hard this has all been on you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“You know, when we were sick with yellow fever, I had this dream. You were dead, and men were throwing your body into a hole. And then they grabbed me. They threw me in right after you.”

He looked confused again. “That’s awful.”

“You pull us all after you, Alexander. I don’t think you always realize it. You certainly don’t mean to. But you do. It’s not just your life you’re risking with this job.”

“I’m doing my best to protect you, and our little ones. I don’t know what more you want from me.”

“I want you to resign. How many times do I have to say it for you to take it in? I want you home with us, really home. Not at three in the morning, too exhausted to think, only to leave again before dawn. Not this shadow of yourself you’ve become. I need you.” 

His face crumpled, but he shook his head. “I can’t leave yet.”

“If not now, then when?”

“This rebellion, it’s bad. If it’s not stopped, the whole government might fall.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Eliza. This isn’t an excuse. I don’t want to stay, but I need to. Knox isn’t even here. I’ve been acting Secretary of War right along with my usual duties. If I leave now, my whole life’s work, the war effort, everything, may have been for naught.”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the gravity of situation, the fear in his eyes. He believed what he was saying, believed he needed to do this even at the risk of his own life. (She felt hands grasping at her shoulders again, heard that terrible hissing in her ear: “You next.” He’d pull her down right after him.)

“I can’t do this, Alexander.”

“Just a few more months.”

A few more months, a year, two? When would it end?

He seemed to read her continued reluctance. He entwined their fingers together and vowed, “I’ll do better, Betsey, I promise—I won’t leave it all to you. I’m going to take a few days off. We’ll bring Johnny out to the country. A change of air might help that cough of his. And it’ll just be us, no work. I promise.”3

She looked at him warily. “And when the rebellion is over?”

“I’ll leave. I promise. I really, really promise.”

Promises, promises. Such sweet promises he made. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to believe him this time.

He leaned close to her ear. “You know, for the record, when I say you’re perfect, I don’t mean it in the sense of a marble statue or a beautiful painting, distant and inhuman. I mean you’re perfect when you’re red faced with anger, or sick, or overwhelmed, or crying with joy. I mean you’re perfect, just as you are, always.”

His honeyed words washed over her, his greatest talent. She stared at him hard for a long moment, and, with calculation, surrendered—this wasn’t a battle she would win, at least not now. She laid her palm against his cheek. “I hate when you’re annoyingly wonderful when I’m trying to be angry.”

A broad smile split his face. “I’m sorry.”

“No you aren’t.”

His expression grew serious as he pressed a kiss to her neck. “I am sorry that I made you feel unseen, my angel. You are absolutely essential to me. I’d never have survived the past five years without you. And I know how much of a toll it’s taken on you. You have my sincerest gratitude for putting up with me all this time.”

She paid him a reluctant smile. “It’s not easy.”

“I expect not.”

“But I love you.”

He smiled again, his hand hovering over her belly with wonder. “I love you, my dearest Betsey. More than all the world.”

And yet, not more than his job, she thought, pain and anger still a tight ball in her chest.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 See George Washington to Alexander Hamilton, 8 April 1794. (This is also a reference to my other fic, [Exhaustion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581234) , where Ham breaks down in front of Eliza.)   
> 2 Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 27 May 1794.  
> 3 See Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 11 July 1794 and 23 July 1794. (Hamilton ultimately took almost the entire month of July off, accompanying Eliza out to the country, then on to Albany.)
> 
> Happy New Year all! And thanks to everyone who is still reading! This chapter wasn't very uplifting, but I did enjoy writing Eliza and Dolley's interaction. That Hamilton kept pushing back the goal post of when he would leave his position had to be beyond frustrating for Eliza, though I do give him credit for taking off almost all of July to spend time with her and John.


	21. Hamilton, November-December 1794

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of miscarriage; grieving

**November-December 1794**

Hamilton adjusted upwards in his saddle, kicking his heels inward to spur his horse onward towards the growing lights of Philadelphia in the distance. The old horse whinnied, but complied, picking the pace back up to a gallop. The pounding hoof beats were loud in the otherwise silent night.

“I know, old fellow,” Hamilton muttered with an apologetic pat to the horse’s neck. His own thighs and back screamed for relief from the hard ride. His breath created a white puff in the frigid air, the cloud rising up to join the others created by his horse’s labored breaths. “Almost there.”

The waning moon above provided barely enough light to see the road. Safety would have dictated he stop at the inn ten miles back, for a lantern and some water if nothing else, but he’d galloped by without a second thought. Blind panic urged him onward.

He never should have left.

“Please don’t go,” Eliza had whispered, her arms tight around his torso. The sunny fall day had accentuated her pallor and her bruised eyes, her figure thin and fragile in his arms. With the stress of Johnny’s illness that summer, she’d failed to round out as she usually did when with child.

Even with all these warning signs, he’d simply kissed her forehead and promised, “I’ll be home before you know it. The wicked whiskey insurgents are all bluster, sure to crumble at the slightest show of force. I highly doubt there will be any active fighting at all; just an agreeable ride that I hope will do me some good.1 Why, by the time you return home from Trenton with Pip and Alex, I may already be on my way back.”

She’d squeezed him tighter, her fingers twisting through his queue, then pulled away. Her hands had slid down over his shoulders to adjust the lapels of his uniform coat. With a brave little nod, she’d instructed, “Come home safe.”

“Of course, my angel.”

Never had it occurred to him that she may not be there when he did.

Leaning forward, he touched a hand to his pocket again, the letter crumpled within a heavy weight upon his heart. A stack of mail had been handed to him over the tavern counter that morning, after he’d risen from a restless sleep and come down in search of breakfast. Most of it had been bureaucratic nonsense, but the private note from Knox had caught his eye.

“ _Among other reasons for wishing your return is Mrs. Hamiltons earnest desire. It seems she has had, or has been in danger of a miscarriage, which has much alarmed her_ ,” Knox had informed him.2 Hamilton’s whole body had gone cold, his mind spinning. Had Eliza lost the baby? Was she in danger herself? Ned and Dr. Kuhn said not, according to the letter, but that could so easily be a sop to his anxiety, he couldn’t bring himself to trust it. He felt sick as he scrambled to find himself a fresh horse, desperate to set off as soon as possible.

“I need you.” He heard her voice, so clear it was as if she were whispering in his ear. How many times had she said that to him? How many times had he blithely continued on with his plans, ignoring her need?

He kicked his heels into his horse’s side again. The poor beast maintained his gallop, but wasn’t capable of more speed. “I’m coming,” he whispered uselessly into the empty night.

When at long last the dirt road gave way to the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, he allowed the horse to slow ever so slightly, though he still maintained an almost reckless speed as he navigated the thankfully deserted maze of city streets. As he tore down Market Street, he spotted the President’s carriage in front of his house, and light glowing in the front windows despite the late hour. He pulled the reigns to a halt just outside and dismounted, patting the horse as he tied him to the pole. The horse snorted with exhaustion and lapped at the water in the barrel as Hamilton raced up the front steps.

His hands shook as he reached for his keys, badly enough that he dropped them as he tried to line the proper one up with the lock on the front door. They hit the stoop with a jangling clatter, and he exhaled as he bent to reclaim them. The door opened as he straightened.

“Son,” Washington greeted.

“Eliza?” he demanded, breathless as he forced his way around Washington.

“Upstairs.” Washington grabbed his arms as he made to fly towards the steps. “Son, she…I’m afraid she lost the little one. A little girl.”

Hamilton closed his eyes, the loss hitting him square in the chest. His poor little babe. Did she know how she’d been loved? How desperately she’d been wanted?

Washington’s free hand rested against his shoulder. “I thought you should know, before you went to her.”

He nodded, struggling to swallow around the tight lump in his throat.

The hand on his shoulder came around to his back as Washington pulled him into a loose embrace. He leaned in to the fatherly touch, a hot tear escaping from the corner of his eye. “I’m so sorry, my boy.” 

“I should have been here,” he muttered.

“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known,” Washington assured him.

But he could have. He should have. She’d asked him to stay, and he hadn’t listened. “I’m done.”

“What was that, son?”

“I’m done,” he repeated. He wanted to be angry: with Washington, with God, with himself. But all he felt was a numb sort of emptiness in his middle. He fought to give volume to his voice. “With the Treasury. With government service. I’m finished. I’m resigning, as of now.”

“My boy, this is hardly the moment—”

“I’m done.”

Disentangling himself from Washington’s hold, he flew up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the narrow space. The door to the master bedroom stood open at the end of the hall, soft amber light glowing from within. As he stopped in the doorway, he saw Mrs. Washington at the bedside, a sewing circle in her hand. She looked up at him, rose, and patted at his face in a motherly manner.

“She’s been waiting for you,” Mrs. Washington said before brushing past him to exit, the door tapping closed behind her.

Eliza lay prone in the bed, her dark hair fanning out across the pillow behind her, the color stark against the white pillows and her bloodless face. Her eyes were closed, but her chest worked in a hard, uneven fashion that belied sleep. He collapsed down to his knees on the floor beside her, lifting her delicate wrist to wrap her hand between both of his.

His strong, resilient wife had never looked so fragile.

“Alexander?” Her voice was hardly even a croak.

“I’m here, my love.” He kissed her knuckles with reverence. “I’m home.”

Her eyes struggled open, crust visible at the corners and along her dark lashes. Desolation swirled in their inky depths. Hand squeezing his weakly, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”  

The exhale that escaped him sounded almost like a sob. One of his hands reached out to smooth her hair back from her forehead. “I’m sorry, too.”

Her face crumpled, a sob tearing its way out of her. “Our baby.” She rolled over, nearer to him, and he gathered her against him in his arms as best he could.

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “I know.”

**

“What are you doing?” His wife’s groggy voice drew his eye up from the letter he’d been scribbling on his lap desk.  He blotted the ink quickly and folded the desk over on itself so he could lay it at his feet beside him.

“You’re awake,” he noted, delight apparent in his tone.

She’d been feverish the past several days, slipping in and out of consciousness at unpredictable intervals. Neddy had been by several times to see to her, but Hamilton had made it a point to be by her side as much as possible. He hated for her to wake and not see him holding vigil.

Her head rolled on the pillow to look at him. He noticed her lips were chapped as she pressed them together, swallowing dryly. Leaning  over to the side table, he poured out a cup of the peppermint water Neddy had left.

“Here, my angel. Let’s sit you up a little so you can drink.” He stooped low over the bed and gingerly lifted her, just enough to prop another pillow behind her shoulders. Then he held the drink to her lips, tipping it slightly as her mouth parted. “Slowly.”

She managed a few sips before sealing her lips and turning away.

“Good,” he praised, though he wished she’d managed a little more. Laying the back of his hand to her forehead, he tested her temperature. Still too warm. “How do you feel?”

She blinked at him slowly.

“Ned says you’re through the worst of it,” he went on, barreling over the silence with a tremulous half smile. “Your color’s starting to come back a little. Oh, and look, Jamie drew you a picture to cheer you up. I think it’s supposed to be horse.”

He held the drawing up for her inspection. Relief pooled in his belly when she reached out to take it from him, her lips twitching up in an almost-smile. “They’re all right? The children?” she asked, voice a little stronger after the water.

“They’re fine. Just worried about you, as am I.”

Her gaze slid back to him. “What were you doing? At your desk, while I was sleeping?”

He glanced down at the desk and shrugged. “Just a letter.”

She gave a resigned sort of sigh. “Treasury business?”

“No.” Bending over at the waist, he tugged the letter free from the desk to show her. “It’s to Troup, asking if he knows of any houses I might engage.”

Placing Jamie’s scribbled drawing on the bed, she took up the letter in her hands, squinting at the words in the dim light of the room. “In New York?”

“In New York,” he confirmed. “If nothing’s available right away, I thought we might spend a few weeks with your family in Albany. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. Your parents are always so eager to see the little ones.” 

Her expression was inscrutable. “My parents?” she echoed.

He frowned and felt her forehead again, wondering if the fever were robbing her of coherence. Her eyes fluttered closed as he dragged his knuckles down gently along her cheek. “Yes,” he answered. “I’ll even let you force me up that mountain of yours.”

“It’s a waterfall,” she corrected, a note of fondness leaking into her voice.

“Whatever you say, dearest,” he agreed.

She let out a puff of breath that could almost have been a chuckle. When her eyes opened again, they looked clearer. She tilted her head to the side, considering him. “What about your work?”

 “I don’t have any work.” Confusion wrinkled her brow, and he smiled genuinely. “I’ve resigned, Eliza.”

“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” she said, reaching out to pat his leg. “But I don’t think you should engage a house yet. We can’t afford two rent payments, and—”

“No, Betsey,” he interrupted, leaning closer to her. “I’ve resigned. I sent Washington the letter this morning. I’ve given him until the end of January to arrange my replacement. Then we’re going home.”3   

“But the boys? Their school. And—”

“New York has schools, and the girls can continue their music and dance lessons there as well. I’ll arrange everything. You won’t need to worry about a thing, except getting better.”

Her expression was still closed. “You really sent the letter?”

“I did,” he assured her. “In a little more than a month’s time, you’ll officially be married to a good for nothing lay-about, as Angelica is so fond of calling me.”

“She calls you a good for nothing politician,” Eliza amended.4

“Well, she’ll have to change it. I’m finished with politics.”

She looked at him for a long, silent beat, before her mouth tightened and her eyes squeezed shut. When she sniffled and managed a shaky exhale, he realized she was crying. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone. The crippling loss and the days of fever had her emotions on edge; his news simply brought it back to the surface, he understood.

After a few quiet minutes to compose herself , she reached up to cover his hand with hers. “I didn’t think you’d really do it,” she whispered.

“I’d do anything for you.” How foolish he’d been, to have taken her so much for granted over the past several years. She’d tried to tell him so many times that it was all too much, yet he’d stubbornly refused to listen. His pride and vanity had so nearly cost him everything good and dear in his life. “I only regret not having done it sooner.”

She reached out and took a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer to her. His hand dropped from her cheek to the bed, the letter to Troup and Jamie’s drawing crumpling under his palm as he steadied his weight so as to not crush her beneath him. When her lips captured his, tears of gratitude pricked at his own eyes.

**

A puff of breath scattered a cloud of dust that had accumulated on top of one of his old legal tomes, the light of a candle dancing wildly as a result. He cracked open the spine, hunting for a definition he once knew by heart. His mind, too full of figures and budgets over the past years, seemed to have pushed aside all his legal training.

The soft melody of one of Mozart’s piano sonatas met his ear as he dragged his finger down over the close-packed words of his book. The eleventh, to be precise, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. Tucking the book under his arm, he wandered out towards the parlor, and smiled at the scene within.

Eliza’s face glowed a healthy pink in the soft candlelight, her eyes focused intently on the sheet music before her as her fingers danced over the keys with practiced grace. So rarely did he get to watch her at ease, freed from the cares of their house and children, he sometimes lost sight of how staggeringly beautiful and talented she was. Her shoulders swayed slightly as she warmed up to a faster tempo; she stumbled over one of the faster runs, but pushed on, though her mouth tightened in an adorable little frown. He slid silently into a chair and closed his eyes.

When she came to the end of the piece, he applauded softly and called, “Brava.”

She smiled weakly at him. “I’m out of practice.”

“You played beautifully,” he insisted. “It’s been a long time since I was last treated to your musical talents. You should play more.”

“I do play, sometimes, to distract myself.”

He frowned. “Did you need distracting from something just now?”

She bit her lip, then continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “You’re just rarely here to enjoy it.”

“Things will be different now,” he promised. “No more late nights, no more public offices. Just you and me, and our family.”

She gave him another weak smile. A shiver ran through her as she did, and she drew her dressing down closer around herself. He rose, placed his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.

“Chills?”

“I’m all right,” she assured him, tilting her head up to look at him. “A little weak, still, but recovered. You needn’t worry so much.”

“ _Au contraire, mon ange_.” He tapped her nose affectionately. “Worrying about you is my most important job. What better subject do I have to occupy my thoughts?”   

Her brow rose as she teased, “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

Laughing softly, he reached for the poker to stoke the fire, then offered her his arm.

She sighed. “You know, I can walk all on my own. You’ve been leading me about like a fragile piece of porcelain the past few weeks.”

“Did it occur to you that I just want to be close to you?”

She frowned skeptically, but accepted his arm. He led her to the sofa, where he spread out an old quilt across their laps and rested his arm behind her. Surveying the side table, he noticed Pip had left a book lying out.

“Do you want me to read to you?” he offered. “Pip left Gulliver’s Travels on the table here. Or I could go fetch us something else?”

She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder as her arm wrapped around his middle, and shook her head. He closed his arms around her in a gentle embrace. They stayed sitting quietly for a long moment.

Eliza broke the silence. “Do you think about her? Our baby?”

His heartbeat quickened at the question. He had to swallow down the beginnings of a lump in his throat before he could answer, “I do. All the time.”

“Me, too,” she whispered. “Ned let me see her, just for a minute. She was so tiny, but she was beautiful.”

Tears stung at his eyes. “Of course she was. Just like her mother.”

“We didn’t even get to name her.” Eliza’s voice hitched slightly as she spoke.

“Do you want to name her?”

She stilled in his arms, and peeked up at him. “No one else would know.”

“We would know,” he replied evenly.

Considering a moment, her front teeth worrying at her lower lip, she nodded. “I was thinking, before….” Her throat sounded thick around the ‘before,’ and all that it implied. She paused a moment. “I was thinking maybe Kitty, for my mother. But then, I thought maybe you might like Rachel, after your mother. My family already has so many Kittys.”

His vision was blurry with tears as he suggested, “We could do both. Rachel Catherine.”

“Rachel Catherine Hamilton,” she said, slowly, as though tasting the name on her tongue.

“Beautiful,” he approved, releasing a slow breath. “Just like her.”

She buried her face in his shoulder. He held her as she shook in his arms, his mind wandering to the little life that could have been, that never would be. His precious little daughter who he hadn’t been home to see for the first and last time.

Things would be different now, he vowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Alexander Hamilton to Philip and Alexander Hamilton, 29 September 1794.   
> 2 Henry Knox to Alexander Hamilton, 24 November 1794.  
> 3 Alexander Hamilton to George Washington, 1 December 1794.  
> 4 Alexander Hamilton to Angelica Church, 8 December 1794.
> 
> This was an incredibly hard chapter, covering such a difficult and delicate subject. I hope I've done it justice. 
> 
> I've seen estimates that Eliza was as much as five or six months pregnant when she lost the baby in 1794, based Hamilton's descriptions of her ill health throughout the summer. John's illness left her incredibly stressed, but she appeared to recover by September, when she returned to Philadelphia in time to see Hamilton ride off to deal with the Whiskey Rebellion. She traveled to Trenton to pick up Philip and Alexander from school, and returned to the city. Perhaps her health began deteriorating again as early as the end of October. Hamilton indicates that some of the children had been sick around that time, and not only were the Washingtons checking in on her, but her mother and brother had also come for a visit (see Washington to Hamilton, 5 November 1794). Hamilton set off for Philadelphia from Pittsburgh on November 19, but hadn't arrived home by November 24, when Henry Knox, at Washington's urging, sent Hamilton a letter informing him of Eliza's miscarriage. Hamilton arrived home by November 27, and submitted his formal resignation to Washington on December 1.   
> (The sex and name of the baby are my own invention.) For more information and links to documents, I wrote a longer blog post [here](https://aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com/post/174931664458/how-did-eliza-almost-die-from-a-miscarriage)
> 
> That Hamilton blamed himself for what happened is evident in the December 8 letter to Angelica, where he wrote: "My dear Eliza has been lately very ill. Thank God, she is now quite recovered, except that she continues somewhat weak. My absence on a certain expedition was the cause (with army to suppress the whisky insurrection in Pennsylvania). You will see, notwithstanding your disparagement of me, I am still of consequence to her." Although publicly he would point to his lack of money as the cause of his resignation, based on the timing, I have no doubt that Eliza and the loss of their child was the true main cause. 
> 
> As an aside, Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 11 is a beautiful piece, and was a little more than ten years at the time this chapter is set. If you're interested in hearing it, [here's a link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dP9KWQ8hAYk).


	22. Eliza, March 1795

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vacation from politics...

**March 1795**

Laughter filled the yellow parlor of the Pastures, drowning out the soft patter of rain against the windows.  As Eliza finished off the last of the sweet red wine in her glass, Stephen Van Rensselaer caught her eye from across the room. They shared knowing smile at the behavior of their respective spouses as she set down her glass upon a table that had been pushed back against the wall with the rest of the furniture. The game of Blind Man’s Bluff had been Peggy’s idea, of course, and she now stood blindfolded in the center of the room with Alexander before her. Her hands had been on his face, but now had dropped to his waistline, much to the amusement of the other guests.

“Mm, I don’t know,” Peggy said, her mouth clearly struggling against a smile. “I thought it was my dear brother Hamilton, but this is far too much padding for his figure.”

Alexander’s face was split with a grin as he tugged the blindfold from Peggy’s face. He held up a finger before her, playing at severe as he said, “We’re not friends anymore.”

Peggy snorted with amusement and reclaimed the blindfold. “You always say that.”

He stooped down gamely so she could affix the blindfold for him, still grinning. Waving her hand before his face to ensure he was truly blinded, Peggy pressed on his shoulder to spin him around three times before retreating to the edges of the room. Everyone chuckled as he staggered back on his right foot for balance, his hands going up in front of him as he began to hunt for his captive.

His cheeks looked rosy beneath his blindfold, Eliza noted, shuffling to the left along with the others when he began moving in her direction. Days luxuriating in the bright spring sunshine had helped erase the terrible gray pallor he’d had in Philadelphia. They spent the afternoons riding, racing each other along winding wooded paths, and stopping by the river to eat a picnic lunch. Of course, the copious wine he’d been consuming was likely helping to add color to his face as well, she granted.

She saw him inhale carefully, then pivot again towards her. His usually graceful movements were stymied by his sightlessness, and she struggled to hold in a laugh as she dodged out of his path once more. Her hand came up to cover her mouth when he walked straight into the table where she’d placed her glass.

With a little huff, he backed up, paused, then started straight for her again. The parlor was filled with friends and neighbors—how did he keep locating her? He had to be peeking, she thought, backing away. The back of her leg hit a chair, and before she could move to the side, he lunged forward, catching her arm. She held her breath, waiting for him to feel her face that he might guess at her identity. Instead, he leaned in for a kiss.

A teasing round of applause rose around the room, started, no doubt, by Peggy. Eliza’s cheeks felt warm at the attention. She gently pushed at his chest, and he reluctantly stepped back. “I knew you were cheating,” she charged.

“I was not,” he said, tone affronted, though his lips were quirked up into a mischievous little smirk.

“Then how you did find me?”

“Divine aid.” He leaned close to her ear, his breath tickling her skin. “No force on earth could stop me finding my way to you, my love.”

“Mm,” she hummed doubtfully, removing the blindfold.

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Or I could smell your perfume. Whichever explanation you prefer.”

She laughed, even as she rolled her eyes. “Charmer.”

He walked her to the middle of the room and affixed the blindfold for her. The cloth sat slightly crooked over her nose, allowing her a very blurry glimpse of the brightly patterned Brussels carpet. Fighting a smile, she allowed Alexander to twirl her about three times.

She heard him move to the right while she gathering her bearings. The bottoms of vibrantly colored gowns and shining shoe buckles were just visible. Holding her hands out before her, she moved first towards Peggy’s golden dress, prompting a delighted shriek from her little sister as she dodged away. She pivoted in the other direction, reaching blindly past two of her parents’ neighbors and one of Stephen’s business associates before spotting Alexander’s shoes amongst the other guests’.

Making a show of swiping out nearly in front of him, she managed to force him away from the surrounding crowd towards the corner of the room. She reached out again, missed, and forced him further into the corner until his back was flush against the yellow flocked wallpaper. Rising up on her tip toes, she kissed him this time, to the great amusement of their audience.

“You were right,” she said as she pulled back. “Divine aid.”

“Cheater,” he charged.

She gasped, holding a hand to her chest. “You wound me, sir.”

The sound of his low laugh, distinct from the rest of the guests, made her heartbeat quicken.

After a few more rounds, Stephen suggested a game of yes and no, which was met with enthusiasm by the other guests. While the furniture was being rearranged accordingly, Alexander touched a hand to her elbow and whispered, “Would you step outside with me? I’d like to take some air.”

She nodded, excusing herself from the group of ladies with whom she’d been standing.

“Is the wine going to your head, sweetheart?” she asked, stepping into the foyer.

“A little,” he said. He was fumbling with the latch of a lit lantern, trying to get it to lock. Smiling fondly at him, she moved to his aid, easily securing the lock.

“You know it’s raining,” she said.

“Sprinkling,” he said dismissively. Expression alight with good humor, he held a hand out to her. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

The invitation brought  back the memory of the magical night they’d spent swimming in the river under the stars, and she wondered if he’d meant to evoke it. Placing her hand in his, she let him lead her out into the gathering dusk. The air outside was still relatively warm, and the rain had eased to a light sprinkle as he’d said. She drank in a deep breath of the fresh Albany air, the clean scent of damp grass filling her nostrils.

They walked towards the back of the house in companionable quiet. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and laughed when he glanced at her, smiling, and playfully bumped his shoulder against hers. Resting her other hand atop his forearm, she hugged his arm close.

She felt a renewed strength in her bones after only a mere two weeks away from pressures of Philadelphia and New York. The terrible grief lived inside her still, swept over her from time to time, but here at home, with Alexander at her side, sunshine was beginning to overwhelm the shadows. Love and life were slowly beating back the darkness and death of the past months.

Her eyes drifted away from the sloping hills ahead back to her husband’s face. She studied his expression, his eyes focused ahead on some distant point and his mouth set in a tight line the way it was when he was deep in his own thoughts. She wondered what he was thinking; wondered if he was really happy now that the reality of his resignation was sinking in.

He seemed happy, she thought.

This morning, she’d been walking back upstairs after breakfast to find her two youngest children racing down the hall, shrieking like little wild things. “Boys,” she’d said sharply, bringing them to a sudden halt.

“Tickle monster,” Johnny had said, his chubby little hand pointing down  the hall, just as her husband had skidded to a halt behind them. His hands were outstretched, fingers wiggling, his banyan flapping over the nightshirt he still wore.

“Sorry, dear,” he’d said, sheepish.

With a slow grin forming on her face, she waved a hand at the boys. “Well, quick, run, or the tickle monster’s going to get you.”

Without missing a beat, the boys had resumed their mad shrieking, and Alexander had resumed his chase. He’d had Johnny pinned down, nearly screaming with laughter, when she’d entered to give them the secret to defeating the so-called tickle monster. “Jamie,” she’d whispered, beckoning the boy close. “Get Papa’s slipper off that foot.”

Jamie had grinned. Alexander had hardly glanced back when they both tore off his old slippers and began tickling his feet. He’d curled in on himself, laughing, and Johnny had jumped in immediately, screaming, “Get the tickle monster!”

But then he’d spent the rest of the morning in her father’s office writing letters to former and potential clients in an effort to start his practice. He’d emerged looking tense and pensive when she asked if he’d like to come riding, though the expression had disappeared as soon as they’d gotten outside.

And then there was Angelica. A letter from her sister had arrived for her two days ago, but she’d tarried in opening it until yesterday, a sick sort of anxiety gripping at her chest the whole time. A year earlier, when rumors of Alexander’s impending resignation had first swirled, Angelica’s reaction had been far from positive. “ _The country will lose one of her best friends, and you, my dear Eliza, will be the only person to whom this change can be either necessary or agreeable_ ,” Angelica had written. “ _I am inclined to believe it is your influence induces him to withdraw from public life. That so good a wife, so tender a mother, should be so bad a patriot is wonderful._ ”1 Her sister had been right, of course, that it was her influence that made him consider stepping down, but the swipe at her patriotism had stung. How much more of him was she meant to share, how much more of herself could she sacrifice, to a country that treated her husband was shameful derision?

In the end, she’d had nothing to fear from her sister’s letter. The latest had been full of congratulations to her and Alexander, along with Angelica’s hopes to shortly be joining them home in New York. She’d shared the letter with Alexander after opening it, gratified when he laughed at the portion where Angelica had claimed to have given herself an air of importance in London by claiming long letters from him.2

Even so, the day of worry had set her thoughts spinning. Had she been selfish to demand he leave his position? Had she stolen him away from his life’s purpose for her own happiness? He’d been greeted with cheers when they’d arrived in New York City, along with a flurry of letters from Washington asking his advice on important matters. She’d taken that away from him, that importance and prestige, to shut him away in the quiet of Albany.

He seemed to sense her gaze on him, and he glanced down again. “Afraid you’re going to forget my face?”

“What?” Her brow furrowed.

“You’re staring at me.”  

She smiled a little. “You’re mine to stare at.”

He inclined his head as he laughed. “Very true.”

Biting her lip, she hesitated a moment, then asked, “Are you happy?”

“Of course I am.” He answered immediately, with no consideration.

“No, I mean….” She paused again, searching for a way to explain. “Are you happy? Here, with me, away from Philadelphia, New York, all the fame and glory?”

He stopped walking abruptly and turned to face her. His expression held a soft kind of frustration as he looked into her eyes. She looked down at the path, but he caught her chin and tilted her face up to his.

“Am I happy? Eliza,” he said, then stopped, his eyes closing just a moment too long for a blink. “You are the most important person in the world to me. Do you understand that?”

 She shrugged, unsettled by his odd reaction. The rain was starting to pick up, the drops coming faster, soaking into her hair and dress. She saw strand of wet hair already plastered against her husband’s forehead.

 “You’re my home, Eliza.” His voice sounded thick suddenly. “I’d never had that before you, not really. You are everything to me. Everything. My work, fame, glory, they’re all empty, worthless things if you’re not there to share them. I don’t think I understood myself, until I almost lost you. God, if I’d lost you….”

A dampness had started in his eyes that had nothing to do with the rain. He swiped at them quickly, always anxious not to be unmanned before her. As if she’d care. Her thumb brushed over his cheek.  

“Honey,” she sighed.

“My happiness lives in you, Eliza. It is anywhere you are.”

Her eyes closed as she wrapped her arms around him. He’d always had a way with words, but the sheer emotion he’d displayed made her feel cherished, silly at ever having doubted him. Nuzzling her nose near his ear affectionately, she said, “I feel the same way about you.”

The downpour was beginning to turn torrential as they stood holding each other.

“We should go back,” he said, for once the reasonable one.

Giving him a final squeeze, she pulled back and looked around. “The old stable is closer. Let’s go shelter there until the rain passes.”

When he nodded, she grabbed his hand and led the way across the muddy grass. Alexander placed the lantern down before the stable door, and together they hoisted up the heavy wooden bar to slip inside. She wiped the rain from her face as Alexander held up the lantern to look around.

This stable had been abandoned some time ago for a newer structure nearer to the house. The roof was leaking near the back, rain water pouring down through a visible hole into the loft above. The scent of horses still hung heavy in the air right along with the smell of the damp hay. A glimpse of movement caught her eye as the light moved, the back end of one the barn cats just visible before the creature fled away from them.  

“Well, this is nice,” he said, his patent wry smile reappearing. “I suppose I did say I wanted an adventure.”

“At least it’s dry.”

“Relatively speaking.”

She shook her head at him as she plopped down into an old heap of hay. “Come sit with me.”

He obeyed, leaving the lantern propped up on an old barrel. Lowering himself down, he relaxed back, lying prone to look up at the ceiling. She followed his example, cuddling close against his side.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” he said.

“No, you wouldn’t have been. Papa built the new stables when I was maybe…nine or ten? I think this is just used for storage now.”

“Hm,” he hummed. His arm had wrapped around her back, and his fingers were tracing a pattern against her hip.

“I used to play in here,” she added. “When I was little.”

That seemed to pique his interest. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. When I wanted to be alone, I’d come out here. Play with the barn cats, climb up into the loft.” She laughed as the memories came back. “I used to pretend I was on a ship, climbing up into the crow’s nest to spot for land.”

“Where were you sailing?”

“South. Like a pirate.” He laughed. Thinking about it for a moment, she smiled softly. “I guess I was sailing to you.”  

His eyes were bright and soft as he looked at her. He didn’t speak, just rolled towards her, his lips going to her neck. Arching her head back, she pushed her arms into his coat to wrap around his waist.

“Mm, we should…probably get out of these wet clothes,” she suggested breathlessly. “So we don’t catch cold.”

He pulled back a little, face hovering close to hers, a smirk on his face. “How sensible you are, Mrs. Hamilton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Angelica Church to Elizabeth Hamilton, 25 January 1794  
> 2 Angelica Church to Elizabeth Hamilton, 24 February 1795
> 
> Sorry this update took so long--I've been trying to plot out exactly how I want the last few chapters to go. This one's kind of a refreshing break from all the drama, just some sweet, simple romance between the two. Hamilton took a semi-vacation after leaving office at the end of January. He was working on reestablishing his legal practice, and exchanging some letters with Washington, but overall, he did in fact take a break for once. He and Eliza both needed time to rest and recharge at her parents' house in Albany, I'd imagine. 
> 
> But Peggy's back, finally, which was fun to write! And apparently Blind Man's Bluff was around as a parlor game around this time, largely as a game for children, but I couldn't resist adding that in. In case it's not clear from the story, the rules of the game were one person's blindfolded, and they try to catch another person in the room, kind of like tag. If they can guess who they've caught, that person become 'it' and the game continues. 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me y'all! I appreciate it!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All feedback is very much appreciated!


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